


Target Panic

by Philosophics



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, hanzo is emotionally challenged but hes trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophics/pseuds/Philosophics
Summary: McCree looks him steadily in the eyes. “I said, I’m in love with you,” he repeats.Hanzo stares some more as the words sink in.“You,” he states imperiously, “are mistaken.” Then he promptly turns on his heel and strides out the open carrier door.-In which McCree confesses his love, Hanzo has some difficulty believing him, and the team seems entirely unable to keep from sticking their noses into the whole affair.





	

 

 

 **target panic**  
_noun_  
(in archery) a psychological, possibly neurological, affliction experienced when aiming at a target whereupon one suffers from an inability to loosen the arrow or achieve full draw.

 

 

* * *

 

 

McCree saves him on a Monday.

It is not the first time in recent history such an thing has occurred. In fact, it happens rather often with all his fellow agents and vice versa; it is to be expected given their line of work. Hanzo is just glad there is anyone to watch his back at all these days. It has not always been so.

He stares up at the gunslinger’s tall figure standing over him. His silhouette is stark against a brilliant blue sky, blocking out the harsh midday sun and casting a much-appreciated shadow over where Hanzo is currently lying on his back amongst the rubble of a crumbled lime-washed terrace.

White spots dance in his blurred vision. He blinks to clear them, eyes focusing on the crimson of the man’s shawl-- _serape,_ Hanzo recalls. His Peacekeeper is still smoking in his gloved hand, its steel barrel shining dully. Belatedly, Hanzo registers that he is mouthing something at him, red--no, _brown_ eyes wide.

“--zo.”

 _Ah._ His name. The ringing in his ears finally subsides.

He did not land on his quiver, thankfully, as evidenced by the way it is presently digging painfully into his right side. His Storm Bow is next to him, unharmed. He grabs for it dazedly as McCree extends an arm out to him. With the aid of his firm grasp, Hanzo lifts to his feet and dusts himself off.

He takes stock of his state: he feels battered, no doubt bruised, and he is bleeding from a wound on his torso, but nothing seems to be broken or twisted and his innards do not seem like they are going to spill out so he is probably alright. His head _is_ spinning ever so slightly, however.

McCree steadies him with an arm around his shoulders.

“Alright, pardner?”

“Yes. I am--I am fine.”

“Almost took a shot to the head there,” McCree jokes, but his gaze is heavy with concern and relief.

Hanzo grimaces. It was careless of him: he was grazed in the side by a shot that caught him off guard and took down the terrace, knocking him several feet to the ground. It was only thanks to the gunslinger’s timely intervention and a strategically-placed bullet between the eyes of his assailant that he was saved from more grievous injury. Speaking of which--

“Thank you,” Hanzo thinks to say, slanting his face upwards.

McCree’s arm is still around him when their eyes lock. The moment stretches a beat too long. Something shifts in the depths of the man’s amber gaze, intent and foreboding. Hanzo feels a twinge of unease within him accompanied by a subtle fluttering, like leaves shivering in the wind. Then, Mercy’s voice buzzes through the comm link informing them that she is on her way and the moment is gone.

 

 

 

The mission in Ilios concludes without another hitch.

Athena had monitored Talon activity in the area for the past few weeks and warned them of the high probability of a strike that day, the objective being the unearthed artifacts within the acropolis. The team responded expeditiously, dispatching a squad of six comprising of Mercy, Symmetra, Mei, Tracer, McCree, and Hanzo to the small island as a defensive force.

One look at their surroundings after stepping off the jet carrier and McCree commented, “Charmin’ spot, ain’t it? If only we weren’t on the clock.”

Hanzo silently agreed; one could do worse than the picturesque Greek island for a vacation destination.

Then: “Hey archer, how ‘bout you ‘n’ me come back here sometime when priceless artifacts ain’t on the line?” Glib, flirty, accompanied by a wink.

“How about you save the chatter for after the job is done?” Hanzo quipped without venom, used to the man’s ribbing.

The gunslinger did not seem discouraged in the slightest, remarking cheerily aside to Mei, “Ain’t a no,” to which he received a giggle in return.

Typical banter. Hanzo has come to tolerate it, perhaps even enjoy it.

‘Avoid unnecessary damage,’ Athena stressed. ‘Don’t let a single artifact leave the island.’

The six of them encircled the site, moving stealthily to cut off the masked, dark-uniformed operatives who appeared seemingly all at once out of thin air, confirming Athena’s prediction. Symmetra’s teleporters were instrumental in their mobility to and around the ruins. Mei’s ice blasters limited the mobility of the opposing side. McCree and Tracer closed in in a rapid flurry with Mercy as support and Hanzo guarding the perimeter. A few Talon agents attempted to infiltrate the town but they were swiftly chased down as well.

A clean, efficiently executed operation with minimal property damage (destroyed terrace notwithstanding), marred only by Hanzo’s minor tumble. The satisfying feeling of a job well done.

Soon after, they are departing Ilios on the short flight across the Mediterranean back to home base. He and McCree sit together in the more comfortable seats by the recreational table for the sake of Hanzo’s injury. Angela is, presumably, accompanying Lena up in the cockpit while Mei-Ling and Vaswani are sitting across the cabin, chatting quietly between themselves; Hanzo hears only the muffled thrum of the engines.

He relaxes back against the cushions, careful of the tight bandaging around his abdomen. Other than the one wound, some deep bruising, and a copious number of scrapes, he is miraculously unhurt. Next to him, the gunslinger is slumped back in his seat, long legs stretched out on the table, close enough that he is pressed cozily against Hanzo’s side. He appears to be dozing--his hat is pulled low over his face and he is uncharacteristically quiet. His red serape is draped around him like a blanket, falling against Hanzo’s leg. Absently, Hanzo stares at the orange lines weaving a twisting hexagonal motif on the woolen fabric. He gives in to the urge to touch it; the cloth is worn from use and softer than it looks, chafing pleasantly against his fingertips.

 _“Afternoon, luvs. This is your pilot speaking.”_ Lena’s voice rings through the jet’s intercom, chipper and tinny. _“We’ll be touching down shortly. Gibraltar, ahoy!”_

Beside him, McCree stirs. Hanzo jerks his hand back as the man sets his hat properly atop his head.

“Have a restful nap?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

Soon, the ship jolts, signalling their landing. The aircraft rolls smoothly to a stop before the door swings open to a familiar view of the hangar interior.

The other agents file out of the cabin. Before McCree can do something unnecessary like offer to help him up, Hanzo pulls himself to his feet, suppressing a wince at the ache in his torso. The other man shuffles, spurs jingling as he stands up behind him.

“Hanzo,” he says, tone serious. “Got a minute?”

Hanzo turns to him. “What is it?”

“This might be, uh, kinda outta the blue, an’, actually, this prob’ly ain’t the best place fer it”--Hanzo senses his expression darkening with impatience and McCree hurries to finish--“but, uh.” He takes a visible breath then says in a rush, “I’minlovewithyou.”

Hanzo blinks--twice, rapidly--as he tries to process the statement. He must have misheard; his mind is still abnormally fuzzy.

“Hanzo?” McCree leans in close, brows drawn in concern. “You sure you're alright? Ya did hit yer head earlier--”

“I am fine,” he affirms. “I am not concussed.” He thinks. Angela did not mention anything about it when she checked up on him earlier so he should be alright.

“Didja hear what I said?”

“I--yes. No.”

McCree looks him steadily in the eyes. “I said, I’m in love with you,” he repeats.

Hanzo stares some more as the words sink in.

“You,” he states imperiously, “are mistaken.” Then he promptly turns on his heel and strides out the open carrier door.

 

\---

 

The following evening is team dinner night. By rotation, it is Hanzo’s turn to cook. He insists against a pardon of duty due to his injury and resolutely waves off the others’ concerned protests, assuring them that he is fine, _no, it does not hurt_ (only slightly), and _yes, I can cook perfectly well_ (he can). Some of them offer to stay and help but that devolves into far too much ruckus in a contained space for his liking. Eventually, fed up with all the fussing and clamor, he shoos everyone out of the kitchen so he can prepare dinner in peace.

McCree meanders in as the curry is just about finished simmering, nose sniffing the air.

“Somethin’ smells mighty fine.”

“Patience,” Hanzo says, gently stirring the curry. “It is almost ready.”

The cowboy comes up behind him to peer over his shoulder into the pot. Hanzo can virtually see the cartoonish drop of drool hanging from his mouth as he eyes the tender chunks of vegetables floating in the thick brown stew.

“Looks downright mouth-waterin’ too,” McCree admires.

Hanzo raps the back of the man’s hand with his wooden spoon when he reaches for the stove. “No stealing from the pot.”

McCree pouts but obligingly retreats. When he thinks Hanzo is not looking, he licks up the small glob of curry that stuck to his hand from the spoon. _Like a dog._ Hanzo rolls his eyes, not feeling as disgusted as he probably should.

“This is--curry, is it? Ain’t like any I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes. It is a simple recipe, yet very filling. It is quite popular where I am from. In Japan, it is considered--what is the term? Comfort food. I had it often as a child.”

“I can see why.”

Hanzo gives the pot one last stir. “That should do it.”

By his signal, McCree makes himself useful by piling rice onto the plates stacked on the counter and passing them to him as they are ready.

“Y’know,” McCree says suddenly, “I really did mean what I said earlier, back in the carrier.”

Hanzo is preoccupied with carefully ladling scoops of steaming curry onto rice so it takes him a few seconds to remember what he is talking about. The other man is watching him intently as if cataloguing his reaction.

 _This again._ Hanzo frowns. “As did I,” he starts.

They both flinch as a loud crash emits from the communal dining room slash mess hall, followed by boisterous yelling.

“Ah. Help me with the curry, will you?”

Unexpectedly, McCree does not argue, but rather studies him a moment longer, narrowed-eyed and thoughtful. He nods to himself, seemingly appeased, then grabs five plates at once and strolls whistling out of the kitchen toward the commotion.

 

 

 

The thing is, Hanzo knows McCree likes him.

He met the gunslinger the first day he arrived at the Overwatch base. That was ten months ago, when, spurred by the echo of his brother’s words, Hanzo stepped foot onto the rocky outcrop of Gibraltar with only his weapon, a small satchel of belongings, and an itch in his bones, not quite certain what he was doing but knowing he wanted to do _something._

Would he have done the same had he been aware of the derelict state of the reinhabited watchpoint--of Overwatch itself? Perhaps not. But by the time he knew better he was already here--felt the heady ocean wind against his skin, heard the waves crashing against the shore, inexorable and resonant--and there was no turning back.

His first impression of Watchpoint: Gibraltar was not bad, considering.

He remembers the day like it was last week rather than nearly a year ago: the facility, cradled within the face of the massive limestone monolith, was covered in a thin film of dust and faintly musty throughout, boasting piles of boxes stacked high in odd corners and no shortage of vacant rooms. Everywhere he looked, there were remnants of its former operations hidden in plain sight.

A physical, almost breathing vestige of a bygone era, held in stasis.

As they walked through its corridors--Winston led the way, apologizing sheepishly for ‘the mess’--Hanzo got the uncanny sensation that the base, with its peculiarly dormant halls and hushed passages, was waiting for something with bated breath.

Despite all its history, Watchpoint: Gibraltar had felt like a blank slate. Like he could, just possibly, begin to reshape himself within the hollows contained in its smooth, nondescript walls, the empty grooves and corners. Briefly, his weary mind had entertained the thought that maybe the place was to his liking.

And then they bumped into the cowboy ambling around the corner.

Their collision was merely figurative in nature, thankfully, although if he were a more sentimental man Hanzo might describe it as being far more momentous than either of them realized at the time. Despite their shaky first meeting--something about the cowboy's indolent grin and languid drawl and all-around _sloppiness_ rubbed Hanzo in all the wrong ways--the two of them quickly warmed up to each other, especially after discovering that, despite their differences, they actually have quite a lot in common.

Hanzo knows McCree enjoys his company. It is apparent in the way the man seeks him out to train together, or eat together, or simply chat together over a drink or two. And Hanzo, loath as he would be to admit it aloud, likes him back.

But there is no way McCree is _in love_ with him. Things like that simply do not happen to him. Are not _meant_ to happen to him.

So, like with all uncomfortable and/or confusing matters of emotion, he ignores it.

 

\---

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_Hanzo! Gmorning (*´︶ `*)╯_

 

Hanzo blinks at the notification that pops up in the corner of his phone. No, his eyes do not deceive him: tacked at the end of the message is indeed a happy, waving _kaomoji._

He forgot he gave the gunslinger his personal phone number months ago-- _strictly for emergencies only,_ he told him at the time. There has never been any real need for them to text each other, not with being able to find each other in person and having their communicators during missions or Overwatch’s secure messaging server via their tablets for everything else.

 

 _ > To: McCree _  
_Good morning. What is the matter?_

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_Nothing jst wanted to say hi_ _(๑・ω - )_

 

 _ > To: McCree _  
_I thought you were supposed to be on a mission._

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_I am_  
_Dont worry darlin nothins happening (－_－) zzZ_

 

The man is slacking off. _How predictable._

 

 _ > To: McCree _  
_You should focus._

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_So booringg…_ _(￣ヘ￣)_ _wish u were here_ _(╯︵╰,)_  
_Attachment: <image> _

 

It is a photo: a shot of McCree and Lúcio in full gear, both sticking out their tongues and flashing peace signs at the camera. Hanzo cannot make out the background from the close angle.

Another message arrives soon after:

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_O Morrisons yellng at me g2g_

 

Hanzo snorts. Serves him right. He sets his phone aside and turns his attention back to his tablet. Several minutes pass before his phone screen lights up with one more message.

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_Love u_ _♡_

 

Hanzo blinks, momentarily thrown. Then he shakes his head in exasperation. He should have expected this-- _of course_ McCree would not simply drop the matter like a sensible person. Leave it to the man to be bullishly obstinate.

He sighs. He will have to clear up this… delusion before it gets out of hand.

 

\---

 

The messages continue to roll in, heedless of the hour of the day, inane and more often than not nonsensical. And always littered with those silly _kaomoji_.

“You seem puzzled,” Genji observes, hip cocked against the kitchen counter.

Hanzo frowns at his phone. “McCree has been texting me.”

“No need to be alarmed, brother. People text each other all the time to communicate. I know you understand the concept even if you do not practice it.”

Hanzo shoots him a dark look. “No, this is… different. He messages me constantly, and for no reason at all.”

“Well, you cannot fault the man for wanting to talk to you; he _is_ in love with you.”

“How--?”

“He told me, obviously, when he came to me for advice.” Genji tilts his head. “It was rather cute, actually. He was all flustered and pining and such.”

Hanzo digests this information. McCree went to Genji for advice? On what?

Before he can ask, his phone buzzes with a new message.

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_Wanna try tht new nepalese place tonite? my treat (*＾∀ ゜)_

 

“Is that him? What did he say?” Genji asks, attempting to peek over his shoulder.

“He is asking if I have interest in going to a restaurant nearby for dinner.”

“A dinner date? How romantic.”

“Hardly,” Hanzo scoffs. “It is not a date. And he could at least try to use proper grammar in his communications.”

He cannot see it, but he knows his brother must be rolling his eyes.

“What is more,” Hanzo continues, “he insists on using an inordinate amount of _kaomoji._ It is quite perplexing.”

“Oh, that’s probably because I taught him how to do that,” Genji remarks casually.

Hanzo stares at him in horror.

“Will you look at the time,” Genji says. “I must attend to my meditation. Excuse me.”

“You cannot fool me,” Hanzo calls at his brother's retreating back. “I know you just came from meditating.”

He looks back to his phone.

 

 _ > To: McCree _  
_Paying for me is not necessary._

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_So is that a yea to dinner_

 

Hanzo mulls it over. He has no plans for the evening and it is good to get out of the base every so often for something other than a mission.

 

 _ > To: McCree _  
_Yes._

 

 _ > From: McCree _  
_Great (＾▽＾) love u darlin ♡ ♡ ♡_

 

He glares at the three hearts. There is no shadow of a doubt now: the other man _has_ to be doing this on purpose. He must be trying to--well, Hanzo does not know what he is trying to do, exactly, but whatever it is he is _not_ falling for it.

 

 

 

Just before sunset, the two of them make the descent from the base and slip discreetly into the town surrounding.

McCree leads them, weaving around throngs of tourists and locals, down tidy cobbled roads until they reach the restaurant--a homey establishment tucked away in a quiet nook of the port, run by a kindly, if guileless, older couple with whom McCree strikes up a conversation in Spanish. There, they take a leisurely dinner--hearty lentil soup over rice, stuffed _naan,_ and steamed chicken _momos--_ seated at a table in a corner of the outdoor porch granting a view of the street, the sounds of the town and cries of coastal birds in their ears.

It is… pleasant. Relaxing, even.

Afterward, they make their way back toward the Rock along the waterfront, alight with the ember-glow of the street lamps. Hanzo takes the opportunity to admire the familiar view from ground level. The sun is low over the horizon, cutting a molten swathe over the dappled surface of the bay and the ships the harbor. A breeze has picked up, just strong enough to toss his ribbon.

McCree strolls alongside him. The evening light dances on the angles of his face and jaw, gleams off of his gaudy golden belt buckle. The gunslinger is wearing his usual hat, spurred boots, and flashy red serape as well, which utterly defeats any attempt at staying incognito in Hanzo’s opinion. His Peacekeeper is tucked securely away at least, as is Hanzo’s bow, concealed within an instrument case slung over Hanzo’s shoulder.

“Thanks fer comin’ out to dinner with me,” McCree pipes up. “Appreciate the company.”

He seems remarkably chipper, if his jaunty whistling and the pep in his step is anything to go by.

“I did not know you were so fond of Nepalese cuisine,” Hanzo comments.

“Huh? I like it as much as the next guy, I s’pose.”

“I would have guessed otherwise given how good your mood seems.”

McCree throws his head back and laughs. “‘Course I’m in a good mood. I jus’ had a delicious meal an’ now I’m enjoyin’ a beautiful evenin’ with the man I love. So yeah, I’m feelin’ jus’ dandy.”

Hanzo halts in his tracks. McCree stops next to him.

“Jesse,” Hanzo says, as gently as he is able, “you are not in love with me.”

The other man does not hesitate: “Am so.”

“You are not,” Hanzo repeats firmly.

McCree lets out a huff and runs his flesh hand through his hair. “Look, hear me out. I ain’t expectin’ anythin’ special from ya. Hell, you ain’t even gotta respond now--you can take all the time in the world if ya need--”

“That is all well and good,” Hanzo cuts in, exasperated, “but _I_ am saying there is nothing to respond to.”

McCree is staring at him with lowered brows, wearing an expression not of disappointment or even anger, but, rather, one of intense concentration like Hanzo is some kind of enigma he just uncovered and is attempting to decipher.

Hanzo pays this no mind and continues, “I know how you feel. Being an agent of an organization like Overwatch--not to mention an _illegal_ one--does not afford one much company, nor does having a bounty on your head and being on the run for years. It has been a while since you have had… non-work interactions, so it is completely understandable that you would latch onto any form of companionship. But that does not entail _love._ Perhaps you are…” He trails off, searching for the right word.

“Confused? Addled by cabin fever?”

“Yes, that,” Hanzo responds, relieved. “I am glad you understand.”

“Yep. Totally understand,” McCree agrees, nodding. “An’ I ain't that, 'cause I’m sure I love you.”

Hanzo bristles. "You are being purposefully obtuse--”

McCree cuts him off, mouth flattening in a thin line. “Hanzo. I. Am. In love. With you.”

“Repeating it incessantly will not change anything,” Hanzo snaps, irked in spite of himself

The other man seems wholly undeterred, a defiant glint entering his eyes. “Gonna keep sayin’ it ‘til it gets through to ya.”

“McCree--”

He turns away and resumes walking. “C’mon, we should prob’ly get back ‘fore it gets dark.”

“We are _not_ done with this conversation,” Hanzo grumbles, quickly catching up with the cowboy’s long strides.

“Ya got that right, sweetheart.” McCree gives him a humorless, teeth-baring grin. “We ain’t done, not by a long shot.”

 

\---

 

Things return to how they were. The two of them settle back into the same comfortable routine. Except--

“Good work today, Hanzo,” McCree tells him after another mission right before they part ways. “I’ll see ya at dinner. Love you.” And then he is gone before Hanzo can fully process what he said.

It happens again: a casual “G’night, I love you” after an evening shared over a few drinks right before they retire to their separate rooms.

Popping his head briefly into the room: “Hey, Hanzo, we got a briefin’ in thirty. Don’t be late. Love ya.”

And that, apparently, is that.

Hanzo cannot believe the nerve of the man. McCree seems hellbent on taking every available opportunity to remind him of his-- _spurious, imprudent, altogether misguided_ \--‘feelings’ for him, despite Hanzo's attempts to reason with him. Maybe the man is determined to get a rise from him, or perhaps see him flustered. Whatever the intention, it does something uncomfortable to the space between his ribs every time.

Eventually, he finds himself bracing for it: those innocuous words tossed his way, careless, blithe. It does not hurt, exactly, but it does send a frustrating spark skittering along his veins each time, followed by an uncomfortable twisting in his gut.

It is fine, Hanzo tells himself. Sooner or later, the man will surely get over this misled infatuation of his and things will go back to normal.

He hopes.

 

\---

 

Since Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s reoccupation, one of base’s larger rooms has been gradually converted into a de facto movie slash video game den. The space now contains couches of various sizes as well as several ridiculously oversized bean bag chairs. Various game consoles are scattered around the room and accompanying screens have been mounted on the walls. The largest of these--a giant screen typically reserved for movies--takes up a wall of its own, with an assortment of couches and seats strategically arranged in front of it. Hanzo has taken to occasionally settling himself here with his tablet during quiet breaks; of all the spots in the base, this one has the most comfortable seating by far.

He is relaxing there one afternoon when Hana enters the room. Hanzo does not bat an eye--the youngest agent is a regular face near the gaming consoles. Today, however, she plops down next to him on the couch and proceeds to stare at him with her cheeks cupped in her hands, looking suspiciously pleased.

Hanzo glances at her sidelong.

“Soo. I heard Jesse finally confessed to you,” she says.

He tenses. “Does _everyone_ know?” he demands. “And what do you mean, ‘finally’?”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Really? It’s so obvious. He flirts with you, like, _all_ the time. _And”_ \--she interrupts him when he opens his mouth to protest--“I’m not the only one who thinks so.” She waves a hand. “There’s a betting pool.”

“A betting pool?” he repeats incredulously.

“Uh, yeah. For when you two will _finally_ get together. I mean, you guys are practically dating already.” She leans back with a satisfied smirk, the hellion. “It's just a matter of saying yes.”

“Well, I regret to inform you that you will be sorely disappointed. I am doing nothing of the sort.”

“Wait.” She squints at him. “How did you reply to him?”

Hanzo regards her blankly. “I told him he is mistaken, obviously.”

“Of course you did.” Hana sighs, expression resigned, and fixes him with a hard look. “You know, you can be surprisingly clueless.”

Perturbed, he retorts, “There is nothing between McCree and me. Why do you all insist on engaging in such pointless speculation?”

“Oh, I dunno, boredom? Or, maybe we just want to see you two happy? Whatever.” She throws up her hands and turns away, clearly finished with the conversation, then begins digging through a stack of video games.

Somehow, he feels simultaneously relieved and put out by her dismissal. He resolves to put the matter out of his mind for the sake of his own sanity.

“Ooh, haven’t touched one of these in a while.” She brandishes a copy of Street Fighter XV in his direction, then fixes him with a challenging stare over her shoulder. “You. Me. Best two out of three,” she says, popping the small disc into one of the older consoles set up around the room.

He scoffs and picks up a controller. “Hardly a challenge.”

He ends up winning the match, though just barely. He blames it on simply being rusty with the controls. It has been a while, after all.

 

\---

 

The gunslinger gets him a trinket during one of his missions. It is a small porcelain rabbit no longer than Hanzo’s thumb, painted with dainty strokes of blue and pale yellow.

“Reminded me of you,” McCree provides by way of explanation when he hands it to him.

Hanzo elects not to bother asking him to elaborate on that.

“What function does this have?” he asks.

McCree chuckles as if what Hanzo said was amusing, eyes crinkling in merriment. “Not everythin’ needs to have a use. I liked it so I got it for ya, 'nuff said.”

“Hn,” Hanzo hums, not entirely convinced. He inspects the delicate figurine: the rabbit rests upright on its haunches, smooth and round like a pebble, complete with floppy ears and a tiny tail. He supposes it does possess a certain charm even if it is rather useless. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” McCree smiles winningly at him then opens his mouth again. Hanzo makes a hasty exit before he can get another word out.

He places the figurine atop the dresser in his room.

 

\---

 

When Hanzo walks into the kitchen one morning, Fareeha is there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, operating the coffee machine; she nods at him when he enters.

“‘Morning,” she bids.

Hanzo mirrors the greeting. He quite likes Fareeha--her combat prowess is admirable, she has a level head on her shoulders, and she possesses a firm sense of duty.

He fills a cup with hot water and a tea infuser with _sencha._ He lets the leaves steep for a minute then removes the infuser and takes a careful sip.

“So,” Fareeha says, “Jesse told you he loves you.”

He very nearly spits out a mouthful of tea.

She continues, nonchalant, “I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out yourself sooner. Poor guy’s about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.” She then takes a calm sip from the orange mug in her hand, seemingly impervious to his agitated state.

Grudgingly, Hanzo confirms, “I--yes, he did say… that. But he does not mean anything by it.”

Fareeha gives him an odd look. “Of course he does,” she states matter-of-factly.

“What are we talking about?” Angela asks, entering the room at that moment.

“How obvious Jesse is,” Fareeha answers.

“Oh, that.” Angela nods sagely, pulling a few slices of whole wheat bread from the cupboard and dropping them into the toaster before turning to Hanzo. “He confessed, didn't he? Are you two official yet?”

Hanzo can feel himself staring. “How can you speak so casually about something like this? Is it not a serious matter for team members to… become intimate?”

Angela smiles in gratitude when Fareeha proffers the coffee pot and holds out a mug for the other woman to pour into while she answers. “Overwatch has no such policies against that sort of thing, if that’s what concerns you. In any case, I’m sure you two--well, _you,_ at least--are sensible enough to not let a relationship jeopardize anything important.”

“Look, you need some time to take it in and all that. We get it.” Fareeha shrugs, leaning back against the counter, then adds, “But maybe try not to stew _too_ long over it? I have money on the line here.” And then she smirks.

Hanzo stands stupefied, all speech deserting him. He has changed his mind; he does not like Fareeha anymore.

Angela _tsks_ at her. “Be considerate,” she chides. “It’s unseemly to interfere with the odds.”

The two women regard him with matching shrewd expressions. The sensation reminds him, unsettlingly, of being caught in crosshairs.

There is a _pop_ from the counter.

“Toast?” Angela offers cheerfully.

Hanzo politely declines. Then he hurries out of the kitchen with his cup in a manner that is not at all _fleeing_ before he can do something regrettable, like spill hot tea all over himself.

 

\---

 

In the abandoned outskirts of Dorado, Hanzo spots a familiar hat lying on the ground next to the freshly-smashed remains of an enemy bot. He picks it up, also retrieving one of his own arrows lying nearby in the process, and dusts it off.

He finds its owner slouched against a stone wall several alleys down, hair tousled, scowling around the unlit cigar in his mouth. His tattered serape is bunched, pushed off of one shoulder.

Hanzo approaches him. “I believe this belongs to you.”

McCree straightens, eyes lighting up when he sees his hat in Hanzo’s hands. He accepts it gratefully, immediately setting it back on his head and tipping it at him. “Much obliged.”

Hanzo takes in the other man’s appearance: he seems rumpled but mostly unharmed, though his cheek is grazed and there is a gash on his right arm--from a bullet, probably--the sleeve around it torn and bloodied. He frowns upon noticing it.

“Your arm. Are you alright?”

McCree glances down to where he is looking and shrugs. “Yeah, must’a got nicked by a stray shot somewhere.”

“You should be more careful.”

“‘S only a scratch. I can handle a couple here ‘n’ there. Keeps one lively, I find.”

“It will keep you lively until you are no longer lively at all,” Hanzo scoffs.

Inexplicably, McCree’s expression melts into a crooked smile. Hanzo barely keeps from flinching at the nearness of it, all of a sudden realizing that they have both leaned in unconsciously while they were speaking. He also notices that his heartbeat is thudding far more heavily than is justifiable given the circumstances.

“Reckon that means I oughta enjoy it as much as I can ‘til then, don’t it?” McCree drawls.

For a moment, it seems as if the man will bend forward the rest of the distance and kiss him: his gaze, heavy-lidded and contemplative, flickers briefly to Hanzo’s mouth before lifting back up to meet his eyes. Hanzo finds himself frozen in place, struck by some bizarre paralysis.

Then McCree draws back, reaching into his pocket for his lighter. Hanzo suppresses the quick pang of disappointment that follows, mentally scolding himself for his loss of composure.

“Tch. Outta fluid,” the other man grumbles after trying the lighter a few times to no success. “Ya wouldn’t happen to have a light on ya, wouldja?”

Hanzo shakes his head. “You should not smoke so much.”

Their communicators interrupt them with orders from Winston to regroup.

“About damn time,” McCree grouses good-naturedly.

For the sake of caution, Hanzo scales the nearest building to take a route with a better vantage, easily finding his footing on the low roof.

“Archer!”

He looks down. McCree flashes a jovial grin up at him and calls, “Love ya,” before turning and sauntering away.

 _No, you do not,_ Hanzo wants to shout, to deny, to shake the stubborn man by his shoulders until he _gets it._

He does not do any of these things. Instead, he heads for the meeting point, cursing under his breath all the while.

 

\---

 

The poker game has been going on for a while now. Hanzo glances over at the table over his glowing tablet screen.

Morrison is wearing his mask, having refused to take it off. He insisted that it is only fair since Roadhog, as usual, is wearing his. Hanzo suspects the real reason is simply that the man has an awful poker face. As for Roadhog, Hanzo cannot quite tell; the man is as taciturn as ever.

Apart from those two, the table consists of Junkrat, McCree, Zaryanova, and Hana, who is unexpectedly good at the card game, popping her pink bubblegum all the while. In front of each player are piles of bullets in place of chips. McCree appears to be losing.

When they started hours ago, the gunslinger tried to get Hanzo to join.

“Hanzo! Come join us,” he called. “I’ll deal ya in.”

Hanzo declined with a “Hn, I think not” and walked past them toward some couches a safe distance away.

It is there that he rests now. Vaswani sits on the couch across from him, posture perfectly straight as she reads something on her tablet. Hanzo was somewhat surprised to see her--the other agent typically stays in her quarters during downtime--but he does not mind her presence. The architech never seems bothered by his silence, a fact which Hanzo greatly appreciates.

Twenty minutes later, McCree ambles over and plunks down unceremoniously next to him.

Hanzo looks up from his tablet, one eyebrow raised. “How was it?”

“Lost. Horribly,” the other man answers blithely. “Nothin’ but shit hands. Makes me glad we decided not to go with strip poker.”

Vaswani looks mildly offended upon hearing this, nose upturned. Hanzo rolls his eyes, though he cannot stop his mind from flashing momentarily to an image of a stripped-down McCree. Needless to say, that thought is quickly abandoned.

“That should teach you to be so cocky,” Hanzo says.

“Aw, don’t be like that. Lady Luck jus’ ain’t on my side tonight.”

Hanzo hums ambiguously, resuming his reading. McCree peers over his shoulder at the article he has open on his tablet for a minute before losing interest and letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. Preoccupied, Hanzo takes little notice when he leans in just a bit too close, disguising the action as a stretch.

“Love ya, darlin’.”

The words are breathed into his ear, smooth, honeyed, and pitched low--one might even say _sultry._ Hanzo jerks away, back snapping ramrod straight. He levels the other man with a furious glare.

“You cannot just--”

“Can’t jus’ what?” McCree prompts.

“You know very well _what,_ ” Hanzo hisses under his breath, peeking discreetly aside. Vaswani is regarding them suspiciously.

“‘M afraid I don’t, sweetheart,” McCree bluffs, feigning ignorance. Nevertheless, he settles back on the couch, stretching his arms out along the backrest, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

Hanzo seethes internally and contents himself with vowing to absolutely _decimate_ the man the next time they spar together.

 

\---

 

Morrison accosts him the next morning as he is taking his customary cup of tea alone in the rec room. The soldier is wearing a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants--an outfit which would be completely unremarkable were it not for the mask and tactical visor that accompany it.

“May I have a word?” he asks.

Hanzo gives the slightest of nods. The man drops into the seat opposite his.

“So,” Morrison starts gruffly, leaning forward. He clasps his hands together, resting them on his knees. “Actually, I’m not really in the position to be speaking about this anymore, but, uh, well.”

Hanzo waits for him to get on with it.

“This goes without saying, but you’ve proven yourself to be a very valuable asset to the team, as has everyone else these past few months. You’re all capable, mature adults”--he pauses for a beat--“mostly. I trust you all to consider what's best for the team when making decisions.”

“... Right.” Hanzo does not quite see where the man is going with this.

“The same goes for, well, any sorts of decisions you may make, personal or otherwise. As, you know… capable, mature, _consenting_ adults.”

The other man fixes him with what is probably a meaningful look through the red visor. Hanzo senses the first stirrings of dread.

Morrison continues, more stiltedly, “Naturally, developing... _close_ relations... isn’t surprising or unheard of in such a tightly-functioning team, and it isn’t discouraged in any way, either. By Overwatch. That is to say, it’s not prohibited in any set of rules or guidelines. In fact, when well-considered and handled in a... thoughtful, _mature_ manner, it can have a positive effect on the team as a whole.”

It dawns on Hanzo, to his immense alarm, that the man is trying to offer him relationship advice. He briefly weighs the merits of throwing himself out the nearest window, then, feeling a headache coming on, decides to cut to the point.

“I already received that memo,” he says primly.

“Oh.” The other man stops short mid-lecture, obviously not having expected to hear that.

Hanzo takes a sip of his _sencha._ Morrison scratches his head.

“Uh. Then--”

“Did McCree put you up to this?”

“What--no! No, he didn't.”

They stare at each other for several more seconds.

“Well. As long as you know.” Morrison clears his throat, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Hanzo narrows his eyes. “If there is nothing else, I have somewhere I must be.”

He does not, in fact, have anywhere he needs to be, but this conversation is treading perilously into the territory of the painfully awkward and even he is not self-punishing enough to be willing to subject himself to that.

“Uh, no. That's all. Dismissed.”

Apparently, the other man is so disgruntled that he has reverted to his commander’s mannerisms. Hanzo decides to have mercy on him and merely murmurs, “Excuse me,” before escaping as speedily as his pride permits.

 

\---

 

“Thanks again for accompanying me, Hanzo,” Mei-Ling tells him as they stroll together along the streets of Lijiang’s commercial district. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to visit Lijiang.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Hanzo replies. “We should make the most of our time here, after all.”

The two of them are briefly dispatched to the city for a reconnaissance mission. Having completed their objectives for the day, they found themselves with leisure time to do as they wish. Mei immediately turned to him and asked for his company on a ‘relaxing promenade’ around the city to peruse the shops. Seeing no reason to refuse her request--they are in no immediate danger and it is simple enough to remain inconspicuous in such a busy city under the cover of darkness--he agreed.

The evening is balmy and still. Beneath the violet veil of twilight the metropolis thrums with activity, its lively streets illuminated by the warm, ubiquitous glow of lamplight. In the distance, the sleek Lijiang Tower looms like a titan over the city center, so colossal it seems to brush the thick canopy of clouds above. Down below, pedestrians bustle to and fro along avenues lined with shops and food stalls.

“Oh! We definitely have to get some _baba_ while we’re here,” Mei suggests excitedly, proceeding to describe to him the savory ham-filled pastry, which is apparently a local delicacy.

Without warning, a deluge of rain bursts forth from the sky. Urged by a tug on his sleeve, Hanzo follows her lead in ducking under the awning of a nearby store to take cover from the sudden downpour.

He gives her a questioning look; her coat has a hood, after all.

“You don’t have a jacket,” she explains, removing her glasses and drying them on her sleeve before setting them back on the bridge of her nose. “We should wait for it to lighten up.”

“Thank you for your concern, but it is merely a little rain.”

“It should pass soon. Don't want your pretty ribbon to get ruined.” She giggles.

“I will be fine,” he insists, but she remains adamant.

They stand there, peering out at the rain falling in heavy sheets onto colorful umbrellas and rapidly vacating streets. The deluge washes over his senses: the rapid, steady _patter,_ the distant rumble of thunder, the faint scent of petrichor. When he turns his head, his attention snags on a display through the shop’s window.

“I didn't know you liked lighters, Hanzo.”

Mei is following his line of sight, apparently having noticed his distraction.

Caught, he replies, “I do not.” He hesitates. “I was considering perhaps getting one for… someone.”

To his embarrassment, her expression becomes understanding.

“Oh! Like a souvenir?” She gives him an encouraging smile. “I'm sure they would like it very much.”

He opens his mouth--wants to tell her that she has it wrong, that it is not like _that_ \--but the right words evade him so he closes it again.

She peers through the window into the depths of the shop, which appears to be some sort of vintage gift and accessory store. “Shall we go in? It seems interesting and the rain doesn’t seem to be letting up just yet.”

Without waiting for his answer, she pushes open the door. After a moment’s hesitation he follows behind her.

A small bell above the entrance tinkles lightly as they enter. The shopkeeper--a short, elderly woman with a graying bun of hair behind the counter--calls out a greeting in Mandarin when she sees them. Mei responds to her in kind then turns to him.

“Let’s look around for a little while, okay?” She smiles again when he nods and wanders off to examine the wares.

Hanzo gravitates toward the display by the window to get a closer view at what he was previously eyeing.

“Ah, interested in the lighters, are you?” the shopkeeper asks him in accented English, approaching him.

“...Yes. May I?” He gestures toward the display.

“Of course, go right ahead.”

Hanzo reaches out and gingerly plucks the item from the shelf for closer inspection.

It is a metal lighter of distinctly fine make, hefty with a golden-bronze finish. Intricate geometric patterns run along the body of it, framing a finely engraved horseshoe. It seems like just the sort of thing the cowboy would like, and it is far superior to the flimsy lighters he habitually carries.

He flicks the lid open and closed, tests it, turns it over in his hand and feels the sleek, polished surface. Then he stops.

Why is he doing this?

 _It is only polite,_ part of him reasons, calling to mind the porcelain rabbit. _It would make him so happy,_ whispers another part of his brain which is staunchly ignored.

He sweeps his gaze around the shop. Mei is hovering by a shelf of jeweled hairpins and chatting animatedly with the shopkeeper, oblivious to his internal tumult a short distance away.

Hanzo glances down again. The lighter rests heavy and smooth in his palm. He closes his fingers.

 

\---

 

“Athena?”

“Present. How may I assist you, Agent Shimada?”

“Is J--Agent McCree in the base?”

“Yes. My records show him last entering his room.”

“Thank you.” Hanzo tries not to think about Athena keeping records.

Several minutes later, he is standing outside McCree’s door. He knocks thrice then steps back and waits.

He studies the small, nondescript black velvet box in his hands. It occurs to him, with a sinking feeling, that this is probably a terrible idea; but, it is too late now.

The door slides open to reveal the gunslinger standing there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair damp and tousled. His expression morphs to one of pleased surprise when he sees him.

“Hanzo! You're back.”

“Here,” Hanzo states shortly, shoving the box at him.

“What’s this?”

“Just open it.”

When he sees the contents, McCree's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, eyes widening comically.

“Hanzo--”

“I happened to see it in some shop we went to,” he hurriedly explains, feeling awkward. “Do not feel obligated to use it if you do not--”

McCree hugs him. Hanzo stiffens. The other man smells like clean soap and a hint of musky spice.

“I love it, darlin’, thank you,” he says. He pulls back with a grin, pleased and bright as sunlight. Hanzo’s pulse skips a beat.

He coughs. “I am glad to hear that.”

McCree beams at him, clutching the lighter closely to his chest. “You're the best.”

The statement is earnest, sincere. Like he really means it.

Hanzo takes a step back. “I… must go,” he says abruptly. Then he turns and leaves down the hallway.

“Seeya at dinner!” McCree calls.

 

\---

 

Hanzo is not entirely sure how he ended up in this situation.

No, he knows exactly how. He was reading in peace when Hana barged in with Lena, Winston, and McCree in tow, all garbed in their pajamas. Hanzo nearly left the rec room right then but the gunslinger fixed him with a doleful, beseeching look and he found himself having difficulty saying no.

He must be growing soft, Hanzo concludes forlornly.

Regardless, before he knew it Lena put a movie up on the big screen and he found himself sitting in the darkened room, McCree next to him on the couch and Lena, Hana, and Winston lounging on cushions on the floor in front of them with a giant bowl of popcorn at hand. Lúcio joined them too, squeezing in between Hana and Winston, as did Mei and Zaryanova, who took over the couch beside Hanzo's.

The movie itself is unsurprisingly mediocre--some dystopian sci-fi thriller that Hanzo decides is far too lengthy for how markedly nonsensical it is. Occasionally, Winston speaks up around a spoonful of peanut butter to comment on the unrealisticness of some particular detail, at which point either Lena or Hana shushes him, only to poke fun themselves at the next scene.

Hanzo has no interest in the film but the couch is soft and comfortable and McCree’s presence beside him is enticingly warm. He succumbs to inertia, relaxing back into his seat. The image on the screen blurs into indistinct flickering as exhaustion creeps in in the dim light, settling like a weighted blanket over his body.

 

 

 

He is woken up by a muffled squealing noise. The source of the sound bolts from the room before he can locate it. Cracking his eyes open, he shifts upright on the couch. The lights have been turned on, presumably by whoever just fled the room. He has no idea how much time has passed. The TV screen is shut off, the rec room vacated save for--

McCree sits up groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Mph... time’s it.”

Hanzo searches around for his phone and, spotting it on the floor by their feet, leans down to retrieve it. A glance at the screen informs him that they were passed out for close to six hours. They must have dozed off on the couch during the movie. Hanzo feels a faint twinge of embarrassment.

“Time for breakfast,” he answers.

“Oh, good.” McCree offers him a sleepy smile. This close, Hanzo can see the sweep of each individual eyelash on his tan cheeks.

The other man lifts a hand toward him and tucks an errant strand of his hair behind his ear. Hastily, Hanzo reaches up to feel the back of his head--and finds that, yes, his ponytail is indeed coming undone. He sits forward, adjusting his rumpled clothing. McCree places a broad palm on his back, the touch light and reassuring. The warmth of it seeps through Hanzo’s shirt, sets off a tingling down his spine.

“Y’look fine,” the man murmurs, reading his mind. “Perfect as always.”

Hanzo lurches to his feet, clearing his throat. “We should join the others in the kitchen.”

McCree stands with a yawn. “Now that’s a great idea if I ever did hear one.” When he stretches, his shirt rides up, revealing a generous sliver of his navel and hip bones. Hanzo absolutely does not stare at the way the thin fabric stretches tight over his broad chest and shoulders nor the flex of his biceps as they leave the room.

 

 

 

It eventually comes to his attention that there is a photo circulating of him and McCree ‘cuddling up’ together (Genji’s words) on the couch, which is, quite frankly, an over-exaggeration.

Hanzo refuses to so much as glance at the picture even though Hana insists on subtly and relentlessly teasing him about it. He only sees it several days later after some miscreant sets it as his phone home screen wallpaper without his knowledge. When he unlocks his phone, to his indignation, he is greeted with the offending photo filling up the whole screen.

The gunslinger is laying half on his back, half propped up against the armrest. His mouth is slightly ajar, hair in dishevelment, clothing rumpled. Hanzo apparently fell against him at some point; he is pressed against McCree’s side, head tucked neatly under the other man’s chin, loose strands of hair escaping out of his ponytail and falling around his face. They are both fast asleep, expressions relaxed and peaceful.

They look… remarkably domestic. _Intimate,_ Hanzo’s traitorous mind supplies.

He lets out a slow exhale and, after a moment’s hesitation, resets the background.

This _may_ be something of a problem.

 

\---

 

Hanzo supposes he should be grateful that their small, hodgepodge group of agents is as congenial as it is. Overwatch, in its straggling state, would likely fall apart otherwise. Even the most unsociable of agents, Hanzo himself included, cannot remain in a hermit state for very long. There is always some activity the more outgoing amongst them will convince the others to partake in, or something or other that draws out those that normally prefer to keep to their own rooms to instead pass time in friendly company.

But sometimes, it all gets _too much_ for him and the desperate urge to extract himself wells up, shakes him to his bones. Those times, he will politely excuse himself and withdraw, swiftly and discreetly. Fortunately, the other agents do not seem to mind much, and he is able to preserve his sanity.

And so Hanzo finds himself sitting atop one of the buildings jutting out from the cliffside, sake on his lips in lieu of a breakdown. Naturally, his brother scouts him out, clambering up the smooth walls, soundless as a shadow, to join him on the roof.

The moon hangs luminous over the vast expanse of sea, its pale reflection a glowing, rippled dot on the otherwise dark surface of the water. Stars speckle a black, cloudless sky. In the far distance are indistinct silhouettes of land.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Genji marvels.

Hanzo grunts noncommittally and takes another swig of his drink.

They watch the strait in quietude. The night is hushed save for the rumble of waves breaking on rock and the low hum of the cool wind blowing from the east. Hanzo can just barely make out the tiny shapes of ships moving across the bay in the moonlight.

After several long minutes, Genji breaks the silence.

“You are sulking.”

Hanzo glances askance at him, brows lowered. “Why would I be sulking?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps because of the absence of a certain cowboy?”

Hanzo sneers. “Do not be absurd.”

McCree has indeed been away on some extended mission for the better part of a month now, but why should that have any bearing on him?

“You are not so reclusive when he is around, I have noticed “ Genji observes.

Instead of responding, Hanzo takes another swallow of sake, frowning when he finds his flask emptier than expected.

In truth, he was far more reticent when he first joined Overwatch: elusive, intensely private, never fully comfortable around the other agents. _Wary,_ Genji said once. _Skittish,_ McCree described him on another occasion. Over time, Hanzo gradually allowed himself to let down his guard around his teammates with no small amount of encouragement from his brother and McCree, who was the first of the other agents to seek out his company. It has become easier, though it is never truly _easy,_ even now.

Genji is right, however. It is the case that Hanzo is not nearly so withdrawn when McCree is around; the other man is nothing if not dogged in his attempts at cajoling him into joining in on group activities. And his efforts have paid off--Hanzo has come to accept his invitations more and more often. Truth be told, he finds the gunslinger’s presence to be, for some reason beyond his own comprehension, grounding.

But that does not mean he is _sulking._

“I am not sulking,” he says. It comes out more petulant than he intended.

“You _miss_ him,” Genji jeers, placing deliberate emphasis on the offending word. His tone is markedly gleeful.

Letting out an irritated growl, Hanzo lunges over to hit him but his brother dodges nimbly out of the way, snickering.

 

 

 

Later, after retreating to the privacy of his quarters for the night, Hanzo allows himself to properly contemplate Genji’s needling words.

Does he miss McCree? The very idea is preposterous. Why should he? They leave for missions all the time, together and separately.

Belatedly, he becomes aware that he is pacing in tight, agitated circles around the darkened room. He stops and stalks over to his dresser to change swiftly into his more comfortable lounge robes. The tiny figurine McCree gave him rests in a pocket of moonlight atop the chest of drawers. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and lightly traces the round shape of the rabbit. The porcelain is smooth and cold to the touch.

The gunslinger’s demeanor is entirely over the top, from his mannerisms to his personality to his ridiculous choice in attire.

And yet--

Behind the flippant, grinning, infuriatingly _careless_ exterior there lies an astonishing competency which seems to come naturally to him, disguised in the form of devil’s luck and more close shaves than one can count, but Hanzo knows better by now. He might even be envious if he were not so grateful for it; if he did not trust the other man, so implicitly, to have his back.

And therein lies the crux of it--the unexpected, even startling, truth of the matter: they work _well_ together, like a well-oiled machine. They achieved a wordless fluidity together in battle astonishingly quickly after the first few times operating as partners. Working with him comes effortlessly to Hanzo, like falling into a familiar, comfortable rhythm. Like breathing.

Hanzo trusts him. He trusts him and he would be lying if he said this fact does not scare him, because _trusting_ is liability. Trusting is _risk._

He sits down wearily on his bed. There is a light fuzziness in his head, like it has been stuffed with cotton.

He cannot deny that he harbors an attraction toward the other man--one which threatens to overwhelm him if he dwells on such thoughts for too long--but those feelings have always been secondary to their friendship, virtually the first of its kind Hanzo has formed in many years. Truth be told, he does not know what he did to deserve it; he is still coming to terms with the realization that he no longer has to be alone. He does not want to lose whatever it is that he and McCree have. Their companionship. Their comfortable camaraderie. And so he holds it close to him, selfishly, even if it befuddles him. Even if... he is not worthy of it.

Even if the man, for some unfounded reason, seems to be under the impression that he is in love with him. And Hanzo, weak-willed and foolish as it is, cannot bring himself to cut himself off from his company as he probably should. The cowboy’s presence has become a dependable familiarity, his chatter tolerable, even amusing, that accented drawl of his-- _dare he admit it?_ \--pleasing to the ears.

Easy banter. Flirty remarks. Endearments slipping breezily off his tongue in that deep, sonorous tone. And, more recently--

Hanzo hurriedly banishes that thought from his head, frustrated with himself. Then he realizes, to his surprise, that he has developed something of a _problem_ down below; the evidence of it is shallowly tenting his pants. This has not happened in a while.

He falls back onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling, the promise of sleep rapidly slipping away with the urgency between his thighs. When it becomes apparent the need is not going to go away on its own anytime soon, he lets out a heavy breath then reaches down and palms himself lightly through the folds of his robes.

There is no harm in indulging in a little… stress relief, he reasons. It is only natural, after all.

With that thought, he slips a hand into his pants, wrapping it around himself and stroking a few times. He shivers at the friction, heady yet wholly unsatisfying. It is not enough.

Finally, he gives a resigned sigh and moves up properly onto the bed, reaching into the drawer beside it for the small tube of lube. He uncaps it and coats his fingers with quick, efficient movements before reaching back into his pants. With his slicked hand, movement is easier. He resumes his ministrations, eyes falling shut as the pleasure builds. Unbidden, his mind wanders, fragments of sensations--remembered and imagined--playing in the safety of the dark space behind his eyelids. A thick arm slung over his shoulder. A sturdy presence at his back. A low, amused voice in his ear, the timbre of it smoky and rich--

_Love ya, darlin’._

His breath hitches, and just like that he is fully hard. Hanzo hesitates a moment longer before the heat collecting in his groin spurs him grudgingly into action and he finally allows his thoughts free reign to go where they please.

The gunslinger would have no patience or tact, would not wait until they were in the privacy of their quarters, just swoop in and take what he wanted. Hanzo shivers and bites his bottom lip--imagines that it is McCree doing it, slotting his mouth hungrily against his, all teeth and tongue, rough and sloppy like everything else about him.

Perhaps Hanzo would acquiesce to it, _just this once._ He imagines all that bulk crowding close and backing him against the the nearest convenient surface, horizontal or otherwise, pressing against him eagerly, a solid wall of heat. The taller man would have to bend down to reach Hanzo’s ear, his neck, his collar with a hot, slick mouth and teeth that nick and nip. Those large hands roaming, flesh and steel, gentle then rougher, gliding boldly across his skin, trailing fire, caressing, grabbing, _fondling--_

Hanzo feels hot all over; his robes, loose as they are, are too constricting. His breath comes out labored, too-loud in the silent room. He does not think he could stop now if he tried.

The man would be unable to keep from running his mouth as always, a stream of honeyed words rolling off his tongue, saccharine and filthy--encouragement, praise, taunts meant to provoke and to tease, rumbled out in that deep, gravelly growl. He wonders how those words would taste on his tongue, how they would feel mouthed against his skin if the gunslinger kissed lower, teeth catching on sensitive spots.

Hanzo’s hand moves faster on his cock, thumbing briefly at the tip, smearing the liquid beading there, the slick noises filling his ears only fueling his desperation. He bites the knuckles of his other hand to stifle the groans threatening to spill out of him. His body is shaky and feverish. Molten heat ripples over his nerves as he works himself, strokes growing uneven.

Unconsciously, he spreads his legs as he imagines McCree settling heavily in-between the part of his thighs, rutting against him without finesse. It is entirely too easy to recall how the gunslinger feels pressed snugly against him, just about enveloping him with his bulk, warm and sturdy, and his scent, smoke and spice. From there, it is an easy translation to conceive of the same weight bearing down on him in lust, rubbing, grinding, _spreading._

He feels all of a sudden too empty. Breathing hard, he reaches down further with a slick hand, brushes his fingers over the sensitive pucker hidden in the crease there, pushes a single finger inside just to feel the stretch--

His orgasm blindsides him. He just barely manages to curl his hand around himself so as not to soil his sleeping clothes.

 

\---

 

McCree returns a week later with yet another trinket in hand. He stops Hanzo in the corridor and presents it to him.

“This is... a snow globe,” Hanzo says, turning the object over in his palm.

“Yep.”

“From Numbani,” he clarifies.

McCree nods brightly. “Thought it was cute. Y’like it?”

Encased within the transparent sphere, glitter snow and what appear to be tiny gold hearts float around a miniature depiction of an orange cityscape. NUMBANI is printed in large block letters along the plastic base on one side; on the other, LOVE. It is hopelessly tacky.

“Does Numbani… have snow?”

“Dunno. Does it matter?” The man is practically bouncing on his heels.

“I… suppose not.” There is no sense in arguing, Hanzo reasons. “Thank you.”

“‘Course, darlin’,” McCree replies smoothly. Then: “You comin’ to dinner? Lúcio’s cookin’. Kid’s all fired up ‘bout makin’ some kinda bean ‘n’ meat stew.”

“Yes, but I am going to change first.” And take a quick shower, while he is at it. He is wearing a simple cotton t-shirt and sweatpants, having just come from the gym, and his hairline still feels vaguely sticky from sweat. Now that he thinks about it, he probably looks a mess; he suppresses a grimace of disgust at the thought.

McCree gives him a thorough once-over. Hanzo feels his entire body heat up at the gesture, down to his toes.

“I think you’re fine as y’are.”

Hanzo hides his bothered reaction with a roll of eyes. “As always, I must disagree with your taste.”

“Suit yerself.” The other man shrugs. “I’ll meetcha at the mess hall, then.”

McCree takes a step before tossing a glance back at him over his shoulder.

“Still in love with ya, by the way,” he says with a roguish grin, then saunters off down the hallway.

Hanzo clenches his jaw and stalks away in the opposite direction toward his room, pulse thundering, gripping the snow globe tightly. He forces himself to relax his grip lest he shatter it.

He places it in his room next to the rabbit, definitely not guiltily.

Something has to--is going to--give.

 

\---

 

Someone went to the trouble of installing a formal archery target in shooting room 2-C. It is not really necessary--the training bots that everyone, including Hanzo, normally uses for practice are far more practical--but he appreciates the attention to detail.

He thinks of it now as he is catching his breath from yet another round of solo training exercises--the fourth, or perhaps fifth, of the evening. A thin layer of tiredness weighs down his muscles. He has no idea how long he has been in here. If the others knew about how he is choosing to pass the time, they might accuse him of pushing himself too much, of overworking, but Hanzo knows his limits. With the excessive amount of pent-up energy he has accumulated as of late, he feels he may go stir-crazy if he does not find an outlet for it: his skin feels too constricting, the Dragons stir restlessly, his fingers fidget for a weapon.

As it is, he breezed through simulation after simulation until he finally felt a satisfying soreness indicative of a thorough workout settling into his body. His hands have finally steadied, his mind calm and clear and despite the haze of exhaustion. Some straightforward target practice sounds like just the thing for a cool-down exercise.

With a press of a button on the panel mounted in the wall, the circular, banded target slides into place. The sight is vaguely nostalgic; his mind flashes back to long afternoons spent at the archery range, the texture of the pressed folds of his traditional _kimono_ and black _hakama_ against his skin, the whisper of wind through the trees.

Readying his Storm Bow, he shifts into stance, sinking easily into the familiar heightened-sense state of concentration.

Back straight. One hand firmly on the bow’s grip. Nocking point pulled between the gloved fingertips of the other. The familiar strain of the draw-weight as he lines up the shot.

His focus narrows on the target’s concentric rings, string taut, his arrow poised in its notch, unwavering. The center circle--yellow ringed with red--is sharp in his vision, vivid and shining, gold like the setting sun over the sea. Like the glint of burnished metal, like smooth ochre lines on crimson fabric. A glowing cigar tip and the carmine gleam of a gaze. It transfixes him, locks his every muscle in place, frozen and trembling--

The bowstring snaps.

At first, Hanzo does not register the pain through his shock, his gaze tearing from the target. The arrow clatters uselessly to the floor with a splitting, reverberating _clang._ Then the sting kicks in and he hisses a breath through his teeth. There is an angry line on his left forearm where the string lashed him, raw and red, colored by a shallow ooze of blood.

The cut throbs dully. He stares at the broken bowstring in disbelief, vision spinning, breathing shallow.

 _Fuck._ An amateur mistake. Positively _juvenile._

“Agent Shimada, do you require assistance?”

Hanzo starts violently, almost dropping his bow. “Ah--no. I--I am fine, Athena.”

Mechanically, he bends to pick up the fallen arrow and deposits it back in his quiver. His skin feels clammy, shock-cold and covered in a thin sheen of cooling sweat.

“Noted.” The A.I.’s synthetic voice echoes through the shooting room, cool and dulcet. If Hanzo did not know better, he would suspect it sounds amused. “By the way, the current time is 23:47. You have been at your task for three hours and seventeen minutes. May I suggest taking a break?”

“... Right. I will--do that.”

It is probably a good idea. He must re-string his bow anyway.

Without looking back at the target, he exits the room with brisk strides. His fist clenched, white-knuckled, on his bow’s riser belies how shaken he feels.

 

 

 

He sleeps poorly that night, hounded by fitful dreams that are little more than blurred sequences of silhouettes. He thinks he awakens once to a soundless, near-black room. A glimmer from the dresser ensnares his gaze: the porcelain rabbit perches there, the golden patches on its smooth body radiant in the moonlight that floods in through the window. It turns its head and counters his stare with its own-- _was it always red?_ \--before one bright eye droops in a sly, suggestive wink.

 

\---

 

Genji gives the bandage taped to his arm a knowing glance the next time he sees him.

“Take care not to wear yourself thin, brother.”

“I am alright. No need to concern yourself.”

A short pause.

“You do not seem to be handling the Jesse situation very well.”

“I am handling it just fine,” Hanzo bites out. “I am used to dealing with _courters._ ”

Genji lets out a dry bark of laughter. “I think you and I both know Jesse is no mere _courter._ You two spend far too much time together for that to be true.”

Hanzo remains mute.

“Why do you insist on being so obstinate, brother? You like him, don’t you? Don’t try to deny it.”

“That is beside the point,” Hanzo spits, frustrated despite himself. “He is mistaken. He is not in love with me. It is at most a mere infatuation; lust, perhaps. He is rash. Sentimental. He is letting his fancies get ahead of him.”

McCree cannot be in love with him. It is simply not possible.

“Hanzo--”

“There is no way that he could be in love with somebody like--” He cuts himself off swiftly, but it is too late.

Genji is silent. That impassive steel mask stares back at him. Hanzo turns away, all of a sudden unable to stomach the sight. _Like a coward._

At last, after several lengthy moments, his brother says, “Perhaps you would be surprised.”

 

\---

 

“So there I am,” McCree says, gesturing with his flask, “on the floor of the warehouse, mindin’ my own business, when some guy pops outta nowhere from the second stage with the gall to aim an assault rifle at me--lil ol’ me, harmless as a mouse--”

Hanzo snorts at the laughably inapt description.

“--an’ of course he fires. He fires an’ he misses, an’ then he starts shoutin’ somethin’ fierce--not the brightest bulb in the bunch, lemme tell ya. Anyhow, I wasn't keen on bein’ his target dummy so I start haulin’ ass. Morrison was real adamant ‘bout _no shootin’--_ which, by the way, is one of the worst tactical decisions you can make if y’ask me--otherwise I woulda stopped an’ taught him a thing or two ‘bout how to use a gun. Shittiest aim I’ve ever seen, an’ I used to be in Deadlock.”

He chuckles. Hanzo hides his own amused smile with his sake flask.

McCree resumes his tale: “At this point I jus’ wanna get at that damned case on the top floor so I can get the hell outta there, so I bolt up the stairs ‘round the side, my new buddy at my heels all the while. Dogged fella, I’ll give ‘im that. Five goddamn flights of stairs later an’ he almost manages to corner me on a balcony, so I toss him an ol’ flashbang--an’ ya know what he does? Poor bastard tries to dodge outta the way, _trips,_ an’ straight up hurls himself over the edge of the railin’. Drops like a stone an’ doesn't get up.”

At Hanzo’s raised eyebrow, he defends, “Hey, Morrison told me no shootin’. Didn’t shoot nothin’ once.” He grins. “Fucker practically took care of himself. All the more convenient fer me--not so much fer him. Makes me wonder how important the contents of this goddamn case can be if that’s the best kinda security they can scrounge to protect it.”

Hanzo hums. “You were fortunate to have been discovered by such an incompetent opponent during a stealth mission.” A thought hits him. “... Were you wearing your spurs, by chance?”

McCree blinks innocently. “‘Course. Why?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “That would explain how you were found.”

The evening is clear and mild; the sun is just slipping below the horizon, bathing the world in fiery hues. A heavy cloudfront is moving in from the east, bringing with it the promise of dusk. The two of them are sitting on the roof of one of the facility buildings, facing outward from the cliffside, chatting idly--or, more accurately, the gunslinger is doing most of the talking while Hanzo is content to listen, occasionally offering a rejoinder of his own.

Hanzo is warm from the sake that has already pooled comfortably in his stomach, not nearly enough to get him drunk but enough to let his eyes wander more freely.

He steals a glance to his left. The gunslinger is gazing out over the strait, clad in jeans and a casual button-up shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders under his ever-present serape. In his left hand he holds his flask, elbow propped against his bent knee; his other leg is stretched out in front of him. The sunset casts his sharp profile in a bronze glow, gleams gold off of the metal of his hat and belt and his prosthetic hand as he tosses back his liquor.

“I missed this,” McCree admits with a small quirk of his lips. “Missed you.”

His amber eyes slide to Hanzo as he speaks, flicks down to his toes then drags back up. Hanzo reads lust in his heated regard, the weight of it far from foreign--he can recognize this much, at least. Compared to their recent interactions, it is familiar ground; and yet, he takes no comfort in this fact.

McCree’s words hang heavy and electric in the several feet separating them.

 _You_ miss _him._

Hanzo feels his heart hammer madly inside his ribcage, fit to bursting, and something within him _gives_ with a crack that he could almost swear is audible. Against his better judgment, he throws his apprehension out the window--restraint be damned--and hauls McCree in by the back of his neck to kiss him.

The other man reacts immediately, mouth moving enthusiastically against his. Hanzo presses closer, chasing the heady flavor of whiskey and smoke.

“Wait--” McCree tears his lips away, creating distance between them with his hands on Hanzo’s shoulders.

Hanzo growls and attempts to reel him back in by the collar.

“Easy,” McCree starts, then chokes as Hanzo all but slithers onto his lap, straddling him and grinding down impatiently against the obvious bulge in his jeans.

Hanzo cocks a brow. “Don’t tell me you do not want this.”

McCree stares, wide-eyed. _“Fuck--_ I _do,_ Hanzo, you got no idea--”

Hanzo leans in, letting a smirk play on his lips, and gazes up at him from under heavy lashes. “Then what are you waiting for, _cowboy?”_

McCree gulps, the motion of it visible in his throat. His eyes darken dangerously; Hanzo can pinpoint the moment his self-control caves.

Without further ado, McCree grabs him by the hips to haul him closer, one hand coming up to cup Hanzo’s jaw and bring his mouth back to his. Hanzo goes readily, parts his lips against McCree’s, hot and wet and utterly _indecent._ The other man attempts to slow him down, to turn the frenzied kiss into something sweeter with deep, languid slides of his lips and tongue, but Hanzo will have none of it. He presses forward fiercely, the kiss growing sloppy, sucking and biting with fervor until he tastes copper. With a low, threatening rumble, McCree surges forward, nipping at his lips and tongue in retribution. Hanzo makes a noise, head swimming, muscles weak. Belatedly, he remembers that he needs to breathe.

They break apart for air with great reluctance.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private, yeah?” McCree suggests, voice roughened.

Hanzo wholly agrees. “Your room.”

They scramble to their feet and back into the base, hurrying down several vacant corridors until they arrive at McCree’s quarters. The door opens and Hanzo is hastily yanked inside, only to have his back shoved against the door when it slides shut.

He moans, caught off-guard by the rough movement; the sound is abruptly swallowed when McCree swoops down and crushes their mouths together, fingers gripping Hanzo’s biceps. Then his hands are pushing down the sleeves of his robes to bare his chest, and his mouth is trailing down his throat. Hanzo curls his fingers in his messy brown locks, dislodging the hat, as the other man presses hot kisses to his neck and shoulders, beard scratchy against his skin.

With some reluctance, Hanzo pushes at McCree’s shoulders until the man finally steps back to give him some room. Hanzo takes the opportunity to tug the ribbon out of his own hair then rapidly divest himself of his robes and underwear, letting the fabric fall around his feet. At his meaningful glare, McCree ceases gawking long enough to do the same, stripping off his serape and clothing and carelessly tossing the garments aside.

The other man is brawny and swarthy all over, his body littered with scars. Hanzo trails his eyes over the expanse of tan skin and sleek metal, stealing a discreet glance at the man’s generous _endowment_ below. Stepping forward, he reaches out to run his hands over the broad, finely-haired chest while McCree gazes down at him hungrily, flesh and steel arms coming up to cup Hanzo's sides, rubbing heated circles into his skin with his thumbs. Hanzo slides his palms up to the wide shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle beneath warm skin, then loops his arms around McCree's neck and leads him backwards, letting gravity pull them down when the back of his knees collide with the edge of the bed.

McCree stops, hovering over him on one arm, to rake his eyes over Hanzo’s naked figure, drinking in the sight of him like a man in a desert. Desire is obvious in his gaze, but there is some other emotion lurking there as well--one that is softer, too complex for Hanzo to decipher. The tenderness of it triggers an unwanted painfulness in his chest, squeezes his lungs so he is short of breath.

“Hanzo--”

“Fuck me,” Hanzo says.

The gunslinger gapes for a moment before collecting himself. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

He hastily retrieves lubricant and a condom from the nightstand, generously slicking up the fingers of his right hand before reaching down between Hanzo’s thighs. Hanzo buries his face in the crook of McCree's neck as the man presses the first finger into him slowly and carefully.

It is tight. Hanzo forces himself to relax against the intrusion. The other man rewards his efforts with encouraging murmurs and soothing kisses to his shoulders, withdrawing only to push back in with two fingers, eliciting a slight twitch when he curls them. Hanzo is pretty certain the slow, methodical movements of the digits inside him are going to drive him out of his mind.

_“Hurry.”_

“Whoa there, sweetheart,” McCree tells him, scissoring his fingers against the sensitive walls, “ain’t no rush. Don’t wanna hurt ya.”

Hanzo suppresses an impatient retort, sinks his teeth into the other man’s neck instead, sucking a mark there.

The other man gets a third finger in, working him loose and open and making the anticipation wind tighter in Hanzo's belly.

 _“Ah--_ that is enough.”

McCree’s hand withdraws obediently. Hanzo shivers at the sudden emptiness. While the other man rolls on the condom, he turns over onto his stomach and lifts up on his elbows and knees.

He looks back over his shoulder. McCree is ogling his raised ass unabashedly, both hands coming up to knead at it, possesive, the touch just the right amount of rough. He palms the smooth cheeks apart and rubs a thumb over his slick, exposed hole. It feels incredibly lewd.

“You sure ‘bout this?” McCree asks.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“If you’re positive...”

Frustrated, Hanzo grits out, “McCree. Just do it. Now.” He turns away to hide his desperate expression in the plush pillows. The position leaves him exposed, twitching with anticipation. God, he wants this. Probably too much. Before he can stop himself, he mumbles, “Please.”

The other man's breath hitches audibly at that and, without further protest, he lines himself up. Hanzo’s hands tighten in the sheets at the first feeling of being breached and he bites at the bed, thighs tense and trembling as McCree pushes in, maddeningly slow. The man is… girthy; it is almost overwhelming, the burning, intoxicating sensation of being stretched so wide.

McCree runs his flesh hand down the sinuous curve of Hanzo’s spine. “Doin’ alright?”

Hanzo stifles a noise of agreement. _Alright_ is an understatement. He feels full, incredibly so. His arms are shaking and he cannot control the way he is clenching down, erratic and uncontrollable, around the thick length inside him. His heartbeat is a pounding staccato. The pressure is too good, nearly _too much,_ and the other man has not even started properly moving yet.

 _“Nngh,_ more,” Hanzo demands.

McCree tugs him by the hips back and up, bottoms out in one long thrust so his hips are flush against his ass. Hanzo _keens._

“That’s it, gorgeous, there ya go.”

 _“Ah_ \--there-- _Jesse,_ ” he gasps, unable to keep from pushing back onto the other man.

McCree chokes out a groan. “God, you--feel so fuckin’ good ‘round me, sweetheart--suckin’ me in so _sweet.”_

Hanzo squirms, not trusting his voice to respond. McCree holds him firmly in place by the hips as he pulls almost all the way out--Hanzo can feel every intense inch of the drag of his cock against soft, pliant muscle--then thrusts back in. The action strikes a sensitive spot inside Hanzo, sending a shockwave of pleasure rippling through his body and ripping a shivery gasp from his throat. His elbows give out and he falls forward onto his arms, his back bowing in an obscene arch, ass in the air. His face burns; he can feel the flush from the tips of his ears all the way down to his shoulders.

McCree growls; his fingers dig into the flesh of Hanzo’s hips as he bends over him, warm and solid and broad. Hanzo grabs desperately at the bed, something akin to a sob bubbling up his throat as the angle shifts so that the other man grinds against his prostate with each movement. He bites down on the sheets in an attempt to keep the noises in.

“C’mon, darlin’, don’t hold back,” McCree rasps, hot and breathy, into his ear. In this position, his thrusts are shorter but _deep,_ pace unrelenting. He brings his flesh hand up to Hanzo’s chest to play with his right pectoral, rolling and pinching his nipple between calloused fingers. Hanzo does let out a sob at that, startled and hoarse. He writhes, panting, but there is not much give--not with McCree pressing up behind him chest to back, hands gripping the soft skin of his hips, buried in him, so close Hanzo swears he can feel his pulse through his chest and deep inside where they are joined.

Hanzo cannot seem to draw enough air into his lungs. Every thrust drives a ragged moan out of him--muffled, breathless sounds that he tries, largely unsuccessfully, to hold back. McCree peppers rough bites along the back of the right side of his shoulder and neck, small pinpricks of pain that shoot straight to Hanzo's cock, which is already leaking steadily onto the bed below. _Fuck,_ he is close, so close. He can tell the other man is too: his pace is beginning to stutter, growing erratic, wild.

He jolts when a hand reaches around and wraps around his cock.

McCree nips at the sensitive shell of his ear. “Doin’-- _ungh_ \--so damn good, Hanzo, darlin’, c’mon--let go fer me, angel--”

Voice thoroughly wrecked, Hanzo manages only a choked-off groan at the violent surge of pleasure that blows out all of his senses, leaves him shuddering in the cage of the other man’s arms.

McCree makes a guttural sound low in his throat; Hanzo hears it distantly, as if through water, as he trembles from the aftershocks of his orgasm. The man is still for a panting moment before he gingerly withdraws and collapses onto the bed beside Hanzo. When they regain awareness, he presses one more light kiss to Hanzo's nape then rolls off of him to get a towel.

Hanzo lays there with a satisfying soreness permeating his being, and, underneath it all, the aching, twisting feeling deep in his gut of something like resignation.

In the morning, he rises early as is habitual for him--McCree is, unsurprisingly, still sound asleep--and, after carefully extracting himself from the man's loose grip and pulling on his clothes, slips soundlessly out of the room.

 

\---

 

Despite Hanzo’s trepidation, McCree becomes even sappier around him--something he had not thought was possible. Nothing has changed. If anything, Hanzo is now more distracted than before.

A smile over a bowl of oat flakes at breakfast, honey-sweet. A warm palm against the small of his back. Arms encircling him from behind in a hug as he is scrubbing dishes, accompanied by a quick kiss dropped on his cheek.

And Hanzo, flustered and confused as he is, does not stop him.

 

\---

 

“Did something happen between you and Jesse?” Lena inquires.

“Why do you ask?

“Oh, please. You two have been acting so lovey-dovey lately. Well, more than usual, anyways--hold still, you'll mess up the part.”

Hanzo frowns but obligingly faces forward again, keeping still while she fiddles with the small braid she is making in his hair. He and McCree do not act ‘lovey-dovey’. Do they?

“Plus, anyone can see how ecstatic he is,” she continues from behind him on the couch. She lightly tugs another bunch of hair into the plait. “He won’t stop whistling in the halls, and”--she lowers her voice--“I even saw him smiling at _Amélie_ the other day. Didja finally pull your head out of your arse and shag him?”

He shifts, hands clenching restlessly on his folded knees. “I fail to see how my private life is any of your concern.”

“Aha! I knew it! So something _did_ happen!”

Instead of responding, Hanzo just glances aside and crosses his arms, brows knit.

“... I do not get it,” he mutters at last, half to himself.

“Get what?”

“This is not how it is supposed to go. He got what he wanted, and yet he is still…” To his mortification, his voice cracks minutely.

Lena’s hands still in his hair. Then they drop away.

“Oh,” she says. She sounds sad, almost pitying. “Oh, Hanzo, luv.”

He refuses to look back at her. He squeezes the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.

“This has never happened before,” he admits quietly.

“You thought he’d lose interest if you slept with him.” The statement is murmured just as softly; Lena’s voice is painstakingly gentle.

Hanzo’s silence is answer enough.

She sighs. “There’s no way that’d happen.”

“Why not?” he asks. But he already knows the answer.

She slides off the couch to join him on the floor, drawing her legs up to the device strapped to her chest. Her brown eyes are wide and somber above the smattering of freckles on her cheeks.

“Because he’s in love with you, you silly goose.”

“He is _not_ in love with me,” Hanzo repeats, stomach churning. Uncertainty finally creeps into his tone. He merely receives a head shake in return.

“Oh, luv. Don’t think you’re even convincing yourself, now.”

He says nothing. Lena resumes her task.

“There.” Satisfied, she scoots back to admire her handiwork. “You should wear your hair down more often. I can't imagine it's very comfortable to keep it pulled up all day.”

He grunts noncommittally. Before he can move away, Lena places a hand on his shoulder.

“I know you fancy him too, Hanzo. You’re just too stubborn to admit it. Why don’t you let yourself accept it rather than resisting it so much?”

He stands. “Thank you. For the--hair,” he tells her stiffly. Then he heads for the door.

“You know what, luv?” she calls after him. “I do believe you’re thinking too hard. I can hear it from here.”

 

\---

 

Alright, so perhaps McCree is, just possibly, _actually_ in love with him. It is fine. He can handle this. Hanzo resolutely ignores the alarm bells blaring in his head.

“You are _abysmal_ at this!”

“Hey now, that’s mighty harsh, don’tcha think? ‘M jus’ new is all.”

Hanzo rounds the corner to the scene of Hana and McCree on the couch, both gripping game controllers, the familiar view of Street Fighter XV on their screen.

“You are by far the worst beginner I’ve ever met.” Hana sighs dramatically. “My expert opinion tells me you’re beyond even my tutelage. Oh, hey Hanzo.”

McCree waves his controller. “Hana’s teachin’ me how to play this here video game.”

 _“Trying_ to,” Hana amends. “No luck. Jesse has no skill at it whatsoever.”

“Is that so?” Hanzo says, faintly amused.

“Some teacher you are,” McCree grumbles at Hana. He turns back to the game, which is paused on the results screen. “What I don’t get is why there ain’t any guns in this game. If there were guns I’d be better at it.”

"There are _so_ many things wrong with that statement.” Hana rolls her eyes. “It’s _Street Fighter,_ there _are_ no guns.”

“Ain’t like any street fight I’ve ever been in.”

The game continues on to the next match. Hanzo watches curiously for a minute. True to Hana’s word, McCree does appear to be rather terrible at the game, fumbling inexpertly with the controls and barely landing any hits.

“I keep telling you--you gotta make combos,” Hana instructs. “Like this, see?” She illustrates her statement by knocking McCree’s character down with a series of punches and kicks.

McCree frowns. “There’s way too many damn buttons to remember.”

“Allow me,” Hanzo interjects. He slides in beside McCree and plucks his controller from his hand in a smooth movement. When the other man looks at him quizzically, he smirks and murmurs, “A practical demonstration. Observe.”

He then proceeds to even out their health meters, much to McCree's obvious delight.

“I didn’t know you were so good at this, Hanzo.”

“I possess a wide repertoire of talents,” Hanzo replies modestly.

“Letting someone else fight your battles for you, Jesse?” Hana taunts.

“Hey, I'm perfectly fine with that if I get to sit back 'n’ watch this.”

“Concentrate, Hana. Or are you content with losing as you did last time?” Hanzo asks archly, reducing Hana’s health by another third of the bar.

She scowls and sits forward. _“That_ was just a fluke, old man. I'm not gonna go easy on you this time.”

“I dunno, Hana. Looks like Hanzo's givin’ ya a run fer yer money.”

“Of course you're taking _his_ side--aha!”

Hanzo grits his teeth as his character topples over. A large KO flashes on the screen.

Hana smirks triumphantly, crowing, “Take _that,_ old man.”

“The match is not over yet,” Hanzo growls.

He wins the next round but Hana takes the third, putting her in the lead for the match. Three matches later, the two of them wind up neck in neck. He acquiesces the final match to Hana, slumping back against the couch in defeat while she jumps up, whooping in victory.

McCree attempts to console him. “Don't fret, darlin’, you'll always be the winner in my heart,” he says solemnly.

Hana groans. “Eugh, go try out your corny pickup lines somewhere else.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard you say,” Hanzo agrees.

McCree grins broadly. _“Most_ ridiculous? Must be off my game. I can keep goin’ if y’like.”

Hana stands, tossing her controller on the couch. “That’s it, I’m out of here.” With that, she tromps away.

“Your loss,” McCree calls, sing-song. Turning back to Hanzo, he adds, “Seriously, though, I can do this all day. Wanna hear--”

“Absolutely not.”

“Y’sure? How ‘bout this one: cupid’s bow ain’t got nothin’ on yers--”

Without thinking, Hanzo slaps his hand over the other man’s mouth. “Cease this _immediately,_ ” he orders. Despite himself, amusement tinges his voice.

McCree’s eyes go warm and soft above his fingers--too close, Hanzo realizes--melting into rich amber. The red-and-gold folds of his serape brush against Hanzo’s arms. His lips move against Hanzo’s palm as he murmurs, quiet, “I love you.” His expression is tender and fond and... utterly smitten.

Hanzo freezes. His chest has gone unbearably tight, his head fuzzy like he has just taken another fall from a terrace. The smile he had not noticed he was wearing slides off his face like water.

He was wrong. He cannot handle this.

McCree draws back, brows knitting. “Hanzo--”

Jerking away as if burned, Hanzo hastily mutters, “I-I have to go,” then scrambles off the couch and out of the room.

 

 

 

Genji is there when he goes up to the roof, sitting facing the sea with his back toward him, light curving along the metallic contours of his body. Hanzo does not know what to say so he settles for sitting next to him.

Closing his eyes, he takes advantage of the quiet and the fresh air to try to clear his head.

“I know why you are confused, brother,” Genji says suddenly, tone contemplative.

Hanzo glances at him out of the corner of his eye. His brother is not looking toward him. “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

“It is different now. Jesse likes you for who you are. Not because you are a Shimada or because you are--were--head of the clan, but because you are _you_.”

Hanzo swallows thickly, hands balling into fists.

He could handle the countless suitors, women and men alike, who flocked to him back _before,_ drawn to his status like moths to a flame. They had been easy to deal with: a dash of attention here, a compliment there--simple enough to brush off or, occasionally, appease with a pleasant night, tidy and discreet. And that was enough for him. He never wanted anything more.

But McCree… is something else completely. The man never seems bothered by Hanzo’s bluntness. He is vexingly persistent, yet Hanzo cannot stand the thought of pushing him away. The entire situation is baffling. Maddening. He is out of his element.

Genji finally turns to face him. “Have you even given a thought to how _you_ feel?” he asks.

Hanzo blinks. He has been repressing it all, of course. It is far easier this way.

The silence stretches on and it becomes obvious that his brother is waiting for an answer.

Reluctantly, Hanzo admits, “I... do not deserve it.” He casts his eyes downward. “He is”--kind, generous, loyal, _good_ \--“who he is, and I am… not.”

“You can be so thick-headed sometimes.”

Hanzo can hear the eye roll in his brother’s voice and he scowls, temper flaring reflexively. Before he has a chance to argue, Genji speaks up again.

“Just take care that you are not stringing him along.” Blunt; unapologetic. It feels like a reprimand.

Hanzo tamps down the knee-jerk reaction to snap back, to deny or divert, because he can sense that this is _important._ There is something protective, nearly accusatory about Genji’s tone, the way he is staring at him straight on through that motionless mask, the low note to his words, like a warning.

A hollow, leaden sensation forms in Hanzo’s gut. It creeps up his spine, cold and bitterly unpleasant.

He… really missed the mark this time.

 

 

 

He does not sleep well that night, either.

 

\---

 

“Oh, Hanzo, Jesse was looking for you,” Brigitte tells him, looking up from her conversation with Torbjörn as he walks by.

Hanzo grunts in response. Leaving them to their conversation--something about _Reinhardt_ and _armor modifications_ \--he continues on his way down the grey corridor of the watchpoint. He knows McCree is somewhere in the base, and he is most definitely _not_ avoiding him.

Hanzo feels listless and cagey; his thoughts are jumbled, his mind scattered. He wishes desperately that there were a mission, an operation, _something_ to occupy him, but only the promise of an empty afternoon stretches ahead. He barely manages a half-hearted nod in response to Lúcio’s friendly "Hey, Hanzo!” when he passes him heading in the opposite direction.

Eventually, he emerges onto the roof. He spots his brother and the omnic Zenyatta sitting cross-legged together on the craggy cliffside a distance away, the latter floating several inches above the ground. They appear to be in the midst of meditation.

Hanzo stops short. The sight makes him feel strangely... bereft.

He turns and walks back inside the way he came.

He encounters Ana Amari near the lower loading bay surrounded by pots of plants. She is wearing a simple long-sleeved tunic and loose cotton pants with her weathered cloak over it all.  She beckons him over when she notices him.

“Oh, Hanzo. Be a dear and help me carry these.”

With that, she deposits a rack of potted succulents into his arms; in his surprise, he automatically grabs onto it so it does not drop. The woman easily lifts the other tray containing an array of bright flowers--Hanzo identifies snapdragons, lilies, and irises within the colorful foliage--then brushes past him.

“This way.”

Without another word, she heads off down the hallway. At a loss for what else to do, Hanzo trails closely behind with his load. The elder Amari leads them through the base with sure, purposeful steps accentuated by the tread of her boots, her cloak billowing out behind her.

“Here we are.”

They stop in front of a door not far from the dining hall. Amari presses a button on the wall and it slides open with a mechanical whir. When they step through it, Hanzo realizes they are standing on a wide sunlit platform overlooking several roofs and the glistening sea beyond. Further out, the path stretches into a walkway connecting two buildings.

What catches his attention, however, is the small, makeshift garden that has been set up in one corner.  A myriad of large pots and pallets hold abundant clusters of succulents, leafy ferns, and blooming flowers of all shapes and sizes: fragrant roses, zinnias, lilies-of-the-valley, crocuses, irises in purple and white, and other plants that he does not recognize. There is even a small fountain-turned-artificial pond filled with blue water lilies.

“What do you think?” Amari asks, setting her tray down nearby next to a bag of fertilizer. Hanzo follows her lead, placing his own cargo on the ground.

“It is lovely,” he answers truthfully. “I had no idea the base has such a place.”

“I thought of the idea several months ago. Might as well take advantage of the sunshine and fresh air, no?” She surveys the garden with a satisfied expression, hands on her hips. “Thankfully, there are plenty of empty corners around here, so I thought I’d fill one up with some of my favorite flowers to brighten up the place.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “I would have sunflowers too, but Gabriel’s allergic. Perhaps I can find some that are low-pollen...”

“Did you do all of this yourself?”

“Heavens, no. I’ve had plenty of help--Angela, Lena, Reinhardt. Fareeha, too. Lúcio and Hana also help me tend to the garden from time to time. Anyone who has the desire to is welcome to it, yourself including, of course.” She smiles at him. “It is good for the soul.”

Hanzo nods. A beautiful garden to balance the mind and spirit. He never did any gardening growing up, but his childhood home was full of meticulously landscaped gardens and courtyards--spaces conducive to meditation and reflection. Those bore little resemblance to this tiny, tucked-away rooftop garden in appearance, but perhaps were not so different in essence. He feels calmer just being here.

Amari continues, “It is kind of silly, but I always wanted a garden--kind of like this. But--well, you can imagine--I never had time for such hobbies, not with the war going on.” Her mouth twists wryly. “I didn’t have time for many things, as it were.”

Absently, she touches the petal of a water lily protruding out of the tranquil surface of the pond. Hanzo gets the sense that she is no longer just talking about simple pastimes.

“But now, I find myself gifted with free time. Not much, as you understand, but certainly more than I have had in a while. Not being a captain of a global task force helps, I find.” A throaty chuckle. “And, well, I have never been one to enjoy being idle.”

She turns her face toward the sea, expression growing pensive. The afternoon sun illuminates the elegant curve of her cheek, the regal marking adorning her left eye, the thick, silver-white locks obscuring the dark eyepatch.

She says, “Inaction is a dangerous thing. Sometimes we hurt the ones dearest to us without meaning to.”

When she turns back, the gaze from her single eye is weighty with knowledge; in the light, the iris shines gold.

“Call it the sentimentalities of an old woman, but I have learned that one should never take for granted that which is dear--and those who are dear. They are far too easy to lose.”

Hanzo swallows and looks away. A kite swoops gracefully over the bay, its cry shrill and mournful.

“Anyway, I believe I have taken up enough of your time.” Amari gives him what he thinks is a wink with her visible eye, the crow's feet at the corner dimpling briefly. “Thank you for your assistance.”

He inclines his head. “Of course.”

 

 

 

After parting with Amari in the garden, it dawns on Hanzo, quite abruptly, that he has been terribly unfair to McCree. _An absolute ass,_ Genji's chirpy voice helpfully provides in his head.

The ensuing rush of guilt leaves him queasy. He cannot do even this right--and yet, for some reason beyond his comprehension, the gunslinger still tolerates him.

Hanzo swallows. This is not his forte. Politics, sure. Personal relationships that actually matter? Not so much. One look at his track record is evidence enough.

He quells the thought; he will not make the same mistake twice.

He knows what he must do. He cannot leave the bowstring taut. Either relax the string or loosen the shot. Commit. Follow through.

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained._

He goes in search of McCree.

 

 

 

McCree’s door slides open before Hanzo’s fist can make contact.

The gunslinger stands there looking just as startled as Hanzo feels. His signature red serape is draped across his shoulders; his hat is in his hands. His hair is mussed like he has been running his fingers through it.

“Hanzo?”

“Jesse. Good evening.”

They stare at each other for several seconds.

“I apologize if I am interrupting anything,” Hanzo blurts, feeling abruptly awkward. “I can come back another time if you are busy--”

“Naw, not busy at all,” McCree hastens to reassure him. “Was jus’ bout to go look fer ya, actually.”

“Oh.” Hanzo hesitates. “May I… come in?” he finally asks.

The gunslinger’s eyebrows shoot up but he steps aside readily enough, gesturing for him to enter. Hanzo does.

“Thank you. Pardon me.”

“Ain’t no pardon required.”

McCree’s room is sparse like his own, mostly bare save for a few personal items. Hanzo spots a small cactus in an orange pot on the windowsill that he did not notice the previous time. There is no place to sit except for the bed so he remains standing.

The door closes behind them.

McCree sets his hat down then leans against the closest wall with his arms loosely crossed, watching him carefully. “What can I do fer ya, pardner?”

“I, ah, was wondering if we could… talk,” Hanzo tries.

McCree lets out a breath and says, voice curiously subdued, “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course.”

His mouth is drawn in a tense line. There is a furrow between his lowered brows. The sight of it is strange on his face; Hanzo gets the peculiar urge to smooth it away.

Keeping eye contact is too difficult so he settles for staring at his hands, resisting the desire to fidget. He does not know where to begin.

McCree speaks up first. “‘M sorry.”

Hanzo blinks in bewilderment. “What? Why are you apologizing?”

“I ain’t takin’ back any of what I said ‘cause it’s the truth,” McCree says, “but I realized I’ve been mighty inconsiderate pushin’ my feelin’s onto ya when you ain’t ever said ya liked me back or nothin’. So I wanna apologize. Fer forcin’ any unwanted advances on ya.” He runs a hand through his hair agitatedly and peers at him, looking for all the world like a hurt puppy. “If ya want me to stop, jus’ say the word ‘n’ I will--”

“No!” Hanzo interrupts hurriedly. It comes out panicked. He schools his tone into something more reasonable before continuing. “No, it is not. Unwanted, that is.”

He does not want to lose this. Lose _him._

“It is I who should apologize--it is why I came here,” Hanzo begins. He feels vaguely nauseated but forges on.

“I should not have disregarded your confession. I was... wrong. I do like you. It is just, you deserve someone… better. Than me.” He forces the words, thick and halting, out of a throat clogged with shame. They leave a bitter taste in their wake. He cannot bring himself to look at the other man. “You know the things I have done, Jesse. I do not deserve--”

“Don't you dare finish that sentence,” McCree cuts in, stalking forward, voice a vicious growl, eyes furious. “Yeah, you're right--I know what you've done. An’ I know the things _I've_ done, the things we've _all_ done. I ain’t no stranger to _dirty deeds,_ Hanzo. I also know how damn hard you've been on yerself fer yer past, an’ how damn hard you've been workin’ tryin’a set things right even if fer some reason ya don't believe ya can. So I’d appreciate it if ya stopped talkin’ down on a certain dear friend of mine, who sure as hell _deserves_ more than what he’s gotten into his stubborn-as-fuck head that he do.”

He pauses for breath. Hanzo can only gape, wide-eyed, head reeling.

McCree fixes him with a serious stare. Dropping his voice, he continues, “Look, if ya feel like ya gotta pay penance to sleep at night, so be it. But I ain't gonna sit on my hands and deprive the both of us of a good thing 'cause you got some downright _backwards_ notion in yer head that you ain't worthy of any of it.”

He relents then, finally looking somewhat abashed at his outburst.

“‘Sides,” he adds, tone muted, “it may damn well be the other way ‘round, y’ever thoughta that? Maybe _I’m_ the one that don’t deserve somebody like you, huh, but you don't see me goin’ round bein’ all mopey ‘bout it.”

He takes a step toward Hanzo's frozen form. “So whaddya say? Give this a chance?”

A silent, interminable moment passes. It feels to Hanzo like being suspended at the edge of a great precipice--wound tight from head to toe, barely breathing, heart beating in heavy palpitations.

At last, he opens and closes his mouth several times before settling on: “Do you make a habit of calling everyone you fall in love with stubborn-as-fuck and mopey?” His voice comes out hoarse but steady.

The other man huffs a startled, relieved laugh. “Naw, jus’ you.”

Hanzo allows his hand to be taken in a warm grasp. “So I am special, then?”

McCree runs a thumb over his knuckles and brings his fingers to his lips. “Damn right you are.” A grin.

Hanzo attempts a watery smile in return. McCree draws him close; he goes.

“You cannot truly believe what you said,” Hanzo says slowly, tentatively. “That you are not… worth… somebody like me. That could scarcely be true.”

“Darlin’, to me you’re more amazin’ than anythin’ in the world.”

Hanzo swallows thickly and buries his face in McCree’s serape.

“I… think the same,” he mumbles into his collar. “You are an amazing man, Jesse.”

Warm arms tighten around him. Then: “What was that, sweetheart? Didn’t quite catch whatcha said. Might have to repeat it once or twice.”

Hanzo whacks him warningly. His heart is racing madly like he has just finished running a marathon.

Maybe… this is alright. Maybe he can do this. Can _let_ himself do this.

He releases a breath like releasing an arrow.

This time, when their lips meet it is soft and deep and achingly, blissfully tender. McCree cups Hanzo’s cheek with one hand as their mouths move together sweetly, the other hand coming to rest on the dip of his waist and drawing him closer. With a tilt of his head, McCree angles their faces to fit more comfortably and, oh, that is his tongue licking hotly at the seam of Hanzo’s lips. Hanzo parts his mouth, making a noise when the other man’s tongue slips inside to twine with his in a slick glide.

McCree is the one to break the kiss. “Sorry,” he says, pulling back.

Hanzo moves forward with him. “Where do you think you are going?”

McCree’s eyes dart back to his, gaze hopeful and searching. “You, you wanna--?”

Hanzo licks his lips. “I believe this room happens to be in possession of a perfectly functional bed” is his coy response. He feels giddy with adrenaline, his chest light as air, and right now there is nothing he wants more than the man in front of him.

“No sense wastin’ a good opportunity,” McCree agrees readily, eyes glued to Hanzo’s mouth.

Walking backward, Hanzo crosses the several steps to the bed, stripping out of his casual robes as he goes until he is in only his black boxer briefs; the other man follows closely as if physically bound to him.

“Well?” Hanzo raises a brow when the man merely ogles. “Strip.”

“Yessir,” McCree responds with a cheeky wink and obeys immediately, pulling off his serape and shirt, then the garish gold belt, then his jeans and underwear together. Then, without being prompted, he climbs onto the bed, settling back against the pillows.

Eyes hooded, Hanzo crawls forward without breaking eye contact with the cowboy, who looks to be an intriguing combination of stunned, delighted, and aroused. He straddles him, knees on either side of his legs, then reaches up and leisurely tugs his ribbon out of his ponytail, letting his hair spill loose over his shoulders.

“God, you're incredible,” McCree breathes, reverent.

“You flatter me,” Hanzo murmurs in a way that would almost be demure if not for the fact that he is practically naked.

“Nothin’ but the truth, darlin’,” McCree says before promptly grabbing ample handfuls of Hanzo's chest and _kneading._

Hanzo reddens immediately. His hands fly up to grab the man’s wrists, stopping short of exerting any force. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Somethin’ I've been thirstin’ to do fer a long time,” McCree replies, continuing to grope him with both hands, the contrast of warm flesh and cool metal evoking shivers. “Sensitive, are we?” the man asks, grin wicked.

“Stop playing with--” Hanzo cuts off, unwilling to force out the rest of the sentence.

“'S matter, sugar? Don't like it?”

Hanzo is distracted from answering by thumbs rubbing over his nipples, which pebble and stiffen under the touch. Sitting forward, McCree captures his lips in a lazy, open-mouthed kiss, licking sloppily inside and sucking at his tongue, spit-slick. Hanzo moans into the kiss, returning it eagerly, pressing forward to deepen it.

McCree guides Hanzo’s hands up to rest on his shoulders before cupping his pecs again, breaking the kiss to stare at Hanzo's chest while he massages the muscle there.

“Ain't that jus’ the _prettiest.”_

“You are, _nn,_ positively _obsessed,_ ” Hanzo accuses, almost scandalized.

“Can ya blame me? They're pretty damn perfect.”

Hanzo cannot find the words to respond to that, blushing brightly to his ears. He tilts his head back, baring his throat for the other man to suck and bite as he continues to fondle his chest, deft fingers tweaking his nipples, working them into sensitive peaks. He dips his head to mouth at one, lapping at and scraping his teeth over the nub before nipping at it gently, beard scratching against the tender flesh around it.

 _“Ah--”_ Hanzo tangles his fingers in McCree’s hair, breath stuttering, eyes squeezing shut as McCree ravishes attention to his pecs, practically worshipping, with his hands and hot mouth. He feels overheated and dizzy with arousal. His chest is so sensitized it nearly _aches,_ and, _shit_ , he is embarrassingly hard, cock straining against the thin fabric of his underwear. It takes all of his willpower just to keep from grinding down and desperately rutting against the other man. He tugs insistently at a fistful of hair until McCree pulls back.

“What’s--?”

The other man breaks off as Hanzo presses his hand to the center of his chest and shoves so he collapses inelegantly back onto the pillows. Hanzo wets his lips at the sight of the cowboy sprawled out underneath him.

“I am going to ride you,” he declares.

“Uh,” McCree stutters out, sounding winded, pupils completely blown. “Yeah. That's--yeah. No complaints here.”

The faint amusement that that elicits is drowned out by Hanzo’s growing urgency. He wants to see the man unravel beneath him. Wants to make him lose all control. With that thought, Hanzo shimmies out of his underwear, bottom lip held lightly between his teeth all the while.

“Do you have--?”

Without looking, McCree throws an arm back and yanks open the top drawer of his nightstand, scrabbling around until he finds a condom and the lube. Hanzo grabs the tube from him and hurriedly slicks up his own fingers before reaching behind himself.

He breathes out a sigh of pleasure as he works a finger, then two, inside himself, letting his tongue peek out from the corner of his mouth. McCree watches him, rapt, gaze flickering between his face and where his fingers disappear into his body. He reaches out and traces Hanzo's stretched rim with a finger of his flesh hand before sliding it into the tight heat alongside the two digits already there,  Hanzo's hips jerk at the unexpected intrusion, and again when it curls, pressing against his slicked walls, practically tugging him open.

“That's it, angel,” McCree rambles, “stretch yerself nice 'n’ good fer me--god, you're real tight aren'tcha, 'n’ so damn _hot_ inside, feel like I'm burnin’ up jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout buryin’ myself in there--you'll let me, won'tcha? Let me slide in, slide _home.”_

 _“Nngh,”_ Hanzo manages. Hastily, he pulls out his fingers and fumbles with the condom wrapper, tearing it open with his teeth and rolling it onto McCree. Then, bracing himself, he sinks down.

McCree's jaw clenches, hands fisting in the sheets, entire body tense with the strain of keeping still as Hanzo takes him in inch by-- _fuck_ \--excruciating inch. By the time he is finally settled, a thin sheen of sweat has broken out over Hanzo's skin; he bites his lip against the burn, feeling stretched to the limit and incredibly, overwhelmingly full.

Experimentally, he tries a shallow rock of his hips. The friction is heady, too much and not enough at once.

McCree's hands come up to steady him by the hips. “Glad I can see yer face this time. As much as I like you on yer hands ‘n’ knees, darlin’, I do miss seein’ those sexy expressions of yours.”

“S-shut up.”

Hanzo’s breath comes out in ragged pants. He can feel the distinctly humiliating sensation of excess lube trickling out of his hole.

Predictably, McCree ignores his command as he begins to roll his hips in short, shallow thrusts. _"Christ,_ you are--somethin’ else. So damn _wet_ an’-- _tight.”_

Face flaming, Hanzo grits out, “Do you-- _nngh--_ ever stop blathering?”

“Nope.” McCree adjusts his grip, fingers dragging from Hanzo’s hipbones to his thighs.

Hanzo rocks back, seeking a better angle. “I recall you being much quieter the last time we fucked.”

“Nuh uh.”

“What?”

“We didn't fuck, sweetheart, we _made love.”_

Hanzo scowls. _“No,_ it-- _a-ah fuck--”_

McCree chooses that moment to shove up hard, striking something deep inside him that sends a jolt through his nerves, wrenching a moan from his throat and leaving his limbs weak. The other man repeats the action, then again, aiming for the same angle. Whatever Hanzo was going to say slips from his mind amidst the intense spike in sensation.

“Plus, I reckon ya like it when I run my mouth,” McCree taunts somewhat breathlessly, one corner of his mouth curled up, smug.

With a vengeance, Hanzo simultaneously rolls his hips _just so_ and squeezes down around him. The smirk immediately drops off McCree's face as the other man chokes out a groan like he was punched in the stomach, teeth gritting, fingers tightening painfully on soft skin. Hanzo allows himself a small flash of satisfaction, eyeing the ruddy flush rolling across tan skin.

“Where is that voice of yours now, gunslinger?” he purrs.

The other man lets out a strangled, almost pained, huff of laughter. _“Fuck._ You ain’t playin’ fair, sugar.”

He bucks up sharply; Hanzo moves with him, eyes lidding in bliss.

“Is that the best you can do?” He pitches his tone deliberately provocative.

A challenging gleam enters McCree's eyes. Lips twisting in a snarl of a smirk and voice dipping into a husky drawl, he answers, “Darlin’, you don't know what you're askin' for.”

Hanzo will never admit to the shiver of anticipation and lust that shoots up his spine.

McCree suddenly speeds up, hips snapping up viciously to meet Hanzo’s downward movements in a punishing rhythm. It feels like all the breath is driven out of Hanzo's lungs as heat surges through him in waves.

“Like that?” the other man croons, not letting up the pace.

Hanzo pushes back against the thrusts urgently, chest heaving as he tries to suck enough air into his lungs. _“J-Jesse.”_

“Couldn't stop thinkin’ ‘bout this,” McCree pants, “'bout bein’ buried deep inside ya, how ya swallow me in so _good, fuck."_

The man’s eyes are glazed and unfocused; his thrusts grow frenzied, irregular. Even untouched, Hanzo can feel the edge rapidly approaching. The coalescing pleasure fuels his desperation, sets his nerves alight, all-consuming. Another brutal snap of hips and he is shoved over with a breathy groan, helplessly shaken apart by the force of his orgasm, stripping both their torsos with pearly white. It lasts seconds, minutes, hours--he cannot tell. He feels fingers digging harshly into the meat of his thighs as he comes down. He takes a few gulps of air and then he is tipping forward into waiting arms.

McCree rubs his back soothingly, laying back again and settling them both onto the bed before carefully pulling out of him and tying off the condom.

“Did you know there is a betting pool?” Hanzo asks when the other man returns from the bathroom with a warm towel to clean them up.

“A bettin’ pool?”

“For us getting together.”

McCree's hands still where they are wiping him off. “So we are, then? Together?”

“... Yes.”

McCree ducks in and kisses him, slow and sweet. Hanzo closes his eyes, lifting a hand to trace along his jaw.

When they part, the man is wearing a grin. “I’m sure ya just broke some hearts with that, sweetheart. Or wallets.”

Hanzo just huffs in response, turning onto his side. After tossing the towel aside haphazardly and hitting the lights as an afterthought, McCree climbs in behind him and plasters himself to his back, throwing one arm over his torso. Hanzo finds that he does not mind it; he is far too exhausted and the bed is all too comfortable.

“Oh, darlin’?” the other man slurs sleepily, nuzzling the back of his neck.

“Nn.”

“Have I ever told ya I love you?”

Hanzo lets out a long-suffering sigh, tired but fond. “Perhaps once or twice,” he responds. “Now be quiet before I feed you your own hat.”

Blessed silence. He feels his eyelids grow heavy, sleep beckoning.

“... So… 'bout that Greek getaway-- _mmph._ ”

Hanzo rolls over and smothers him with his pillow.

 

\---

 

Midway through Hanzo’s cup of tea the next morning, McCree slides into the chair next to his with a mug of black coffee in hand and leans over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. Hanzo indulges him, albeit grumpily--there _are_ other agents at the kitchen table, after all.

“Mornin’, darlin’,” McCree says, cheerful.

Fighting down a surge of self-consciousness and the accompanying blush, Hanzo replies, “Good morning.”

The room breaks out into a chorus of chatter. Across from them, Hana holds out a hand expectantly. With some grumbling, the others produce varying amounts of cash from their pockets and pass the money toward her--including Genji. Hanzo feels his eye twitch. He is going to have a _word_ later.

“It’s about damn time,” Morrison grouses from the end of the table as he pulls bills from his own jacket.

The blush is a lost cause. Hanzo gives up and glowers in the general direction of the team. McCree just chuckles into his mug, the sound happy and pleased.

Hanzo determinedly ignores any and all questions directed toward him for the remainder of breakfast.

Later, after putting his dishes away, he passes by McCree heading toward the sink. Making sure no one is looking, he quickly lifts up onto his toes to bring his mouth next to the other man’s ear. Then, quietly so only he can hear, Hanzo murmurs, “I love you.”

And it is the truth. Perhaps it had been so all along without him realizing it.

He takes certain satisfaction in the way the gunslinger all but trips over himself, then meets the man’s wondering gaze with a small curl of his lips.

Never let it be said that Shimada Hanzo fails to take the shot.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Addendum (of dubious and varying seriousness):
> 
> \- team dinner tuesdays started out as a taco tuesday ft. homemade tacos by mccree three weeks after recall, which then grew into a bi-weekly rotation affair  
> \- nobody lets mccree pick the title for movie nights anymore, not after the first five times he insisted on some cheesy old spaghetti western  
> \- the one who set the couch photo as hanzo’s phone wallpaper was sombra
> 
> thanks for reading! also im @feiyunn at twitter hmu if ya wanna yell about mchanzo or whatever B)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Target Panic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14073990) by [sksNinja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksNinja/pseuds/sksNinja)




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